AMERICAN   POEMS 

I776-KJOO 

WITH    NOTES    AND    BIOGRAPHIES 


BY 


AUGUSTUS   WHITE    LONG 

PRECEPTOR    IN    ENGLISH    AT    PRINCETON    UNIVERSITY 

JOINT    EDITOR    OF    ENGLISH    POKMS    FROM 

CHAUCER   TO    KIPLING 


NEW  YORK  •:•  CINCINNATI  •:•  CHICAGO 

AMERICAN     BOOK    COMPANY 


COPYKIGHT,    1905,    BY 

AUGUSTUS  WHITE  LONG. 
ENTERED  AT  STATIONERS'  HALL,  LONDON. 

LONG'S  AM.  POEMS. 
W,  P.  2 


INTRODUCTION 

THE  purpose  of  this  volume  is  not  to  thrust  upon  the  public 
another  anthology  which,  after  decorating  the  drawing-room  table 
a  few  days  at  Christmas,  shall  go  to  rest  under  the  dust  on  the  top 
shelf.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  intended  to  serve  in  the  hands  of 
students  as  a  useful  collection  of  American  verse,  with  notes  of 
explanation  and  interpretation,  which  shall  illustrate  the  growth 
and  spirit  of  American  life  as  expressed  in  its  literature.  More 
over,  it  should,  by  giving  new  perceptions  of  power  and  beauty, 
lift  the  spirit  and  increase  the  sum  of  human  enjoyment.  "  Lit 
erature  is  the  record  of  the  best  thoughts,"  says  Emerson ;  and 
the  best  thoughts  of  the  best  Americans  are  most  assuredly  worthy 
of  careful  study. 

The  notes  are  intended  primarily,  not  to  ask  puzzling  questions, 
but  to  give  information.  It  may  be  objected  by  some  critics  that 
much  is  explained  that  is  already  obvious ;  such  criticism,  how 
ever,  is  most  likely  to  be  made  by  those  who  have  never  taught 
school.  The  brief  critical  comments  which  have  been  added  to 
the  explanatory  notes  are  meant  to  interpret  the  poems  to  the 
student  and  to  win  his  attention  and  sympathy.  In  the  biographical 
sketches,  the  aim  has  been  to  avoid  all  matters  which  are  obscure 
or  which  may  lead  to  fruitless  discussion.  The  purpose  of  these 
sketches  is  to  inform,  and,  if  possible,  to  entertain  and  awaken 
interest.  As  a  whole,  the  volume  does  not  pretend  to  exhaustive- 
ness,  either  in  its  selections  or  its  notes,  but  is  rather  meant  to 
serve  as  an  introduction  to  the  systematic  study  of  American  poetry. 

The  field  has  been  divided  into  three  periods.  The  Early 
Period  begins  with  Freneau,  and  includes  the  writers  who  pre 
ceded  Bryant.  These  writers  had  many  traits  in  common.  They 


258^65 


4  INTRODUCTION 

were  imitators,  for  the  most  part,  of  English  models ;  and  their 
work  was  often  marred  by  sentimentality.  But  they  show  growth 
in  literary  form,  and  their  work  gives  evidence  that  the  young 
nation  was  developing  into  national  consciousness. 

The  Middle  Period  includes  not  only  the  greater  names, — 
Bryant,  Emerson,  Longfellow,  Whittier,  Poe,  Holmes,  and  Lowell,— 
but  many  lesser  names  that  cluster  about  them.  This  period  closes 
with  Mr.  Thompson's  The  High  Tide  at  C-cttysburg,  which  may 
be  said  to  mark  the  culmination  of  the  impulse  given  to  letters  by 
the  Civil  War.  Deep  feeling  and  imaginative  power  stamp  this 
period  as  the  greatest  in  our  literary  history.  The  two  chief  forces 
that  made  it  great  were  the  revival  of  letters  in  New  England  and 
the  Civil  War. 

The  Later  Period,  which  deals  with  writers  who  are  for  the  most 
part  still  living,  naturally  does  not  possess  the  depth  of  feeling  and 
the  sustained  imaginative  power  of  poetry  inspired  by  a  great  war, 
but  it  does  possess  real  feeling  and  imagination.  Moreover,  it 
possesses  a  dominant  urbanity,  humor,  and  grace,  and  everywhere 
displays  lightness  of  touch  and  dexterousness  of  form.  Its  defi 
ciencies  are  apparently  those  of  a  period  of  waiting.  What  the 
future  will  bring  forth  may  only  be  guessed  at  vaguely.  It  seems 
reasonably  sure,  however,  that  the  splendid  material  and  political 
activity  of  the  United  States  at  the  present  day  —  the  surge  of  life 
that  every  day  beats  around  our  feet  —  must  in  due  time  find  fit 
literary  expression  ;  and  those  of  us  who  believe  strongly  in  the 
commercial  and  political  future  of  the  country  are  no  less  confi 
dent  of  the  future  of  American  letters. 

Grateful  acknowledgment  for  permission  to  use  copyrighted 
selections  is  given  as  follows  :  to  Maynard,  Merrill  &  Co.  for  the 
selections  by  N.  P.  Willis;  to  J.  B.  Lippincott  Company  for 
the  selections  by  T.  B.  Read  and  G.  H.  Boker ;  to  the  Robert 
Clarke  Company  for  "  Antony  to  Cleopatra,"  from  their  edition  of 
the  Poems  of  General  William  Haines  Lytle ;  to  Lothrop,  Lee 
&  Shepard  Company  for  the  selections  by  P.  H.  Hayne ;  to 
McClure,  Phillips  &  Co.,  publishers,  for  the  selection  by  Edwin 


INTRODUCTION  5 

Markham  ;  to  Collier's  Weekly  for  the  selection  by  Caroline  Duer ; 
to  Harper's  Weekly  for  the  selection  by  G.  W.  Carryl ;  to  Harper's 
Magazine  for  the  selection  by  J.  B.  Gilder.  The  selections  by 
Emerson,  Longfellow,  Whittier,  Holmes,  Lowell,  W.  W.  Story, 
Julia  Ward  Howe,  T.  W.  Parsons,  Bayard  Taylor,  J.  T.  Trow- 
bridge,  E.  C.  Stedman,  T.  B.  Aldrich,  John  Hay,  Bret  Harte, 
E.  R.  Sill,  Maurice  Thompson,  E.  M.  Thomas,  F.  D.  Sherman, 
L.  I.  Guiney,  and  W.  V.  Moody  are  used  by  permission  of,  and 
by  special  arrangement  with,  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  the  author 
ized  publishers  of  their  works. 

For  further  courtesies  in  matters  of  copyright,  the  editor  is  also 
indebted  to  :  D.  Appleton  &  Co. ;  The  Bobbs-Merrill  Co. ;  The 
Century  Co. ;  Henry  T.  Coates  &  Co. ;  Small,  Maynard  &  Co. ; 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons ;  F.  M.  Finch  ;  G.  J.  Preston  ;  Rosa  N. 
Ticknor;  Will  H.  Thompson;  W.  T.  Meredith;  Lloyd  Mifflin; 
John  Vance  Cheney ;  Arthur  Peterson ;  W.  Gordon  McCabe ; 
James  R.  Randall;  E.  F.  Ware. 

To  Mr.  E.  C.  Stedman  the  special  acknowledgment  of  the  edi 
tor  is  due,  and  is  cordially  given,  for  the  free  use  made  of  the 
texts  in  An  American  Anthology,  and  for  indispensable  help  from 
the  biographical  notes.  Many  other  books  have  also  been  of 
service.  For  illuminating  suggestion,  mention  should  be  made  of 
Professor  Wendell's  Literary  History  of  America,  Professor  Wood- 
berry's  America  in  Literature,  and  Professor  Trent's  American 
Literature. 

To  Professor  Henry  van  Dyke,  Professor  T.  W.  Hunt,  Professor 
T.  M.  Parrott,  and  Professor  H.  F.  Covington,  of  Princeton  Uni 
versity,  and  to  Mr.  W7.  M.  Reed  and  Mr.  J.  J.  Moment,  the  editor 
is  greatly  indebted  for  generous  assistance  in  numberless  ways. 

A.  W.  L. 

PRINCETON  UNIVKRSITY, 
September  l,  1905. 


CONTENTS 

EARLY   PERIOD 

PAGE 

PHILIP   FRENEAU 

The  Indian  Burying  Ground          .......  l6 

The  \Vild  Honeysuckle         ........  17 

Eutaw  Springs      ..........  l8 

JOSEPH    HOPKINSON 

Hail  Columbia      ..........       19 

FRANCIS   SCOTT   KEY 

The  Star-spangled  Banner    ........       2I 

CLEMENT   CLARKE   MOORE 

A  Visit  from  St.  Nicholas     ........       23 

JOHN   PIERPONT 

The  Exile  at  Rest          .........       25 

Warren's  Address  to  the  American  Soldiers          .         .         .         .26 

The  Ballot    ...........       27 

SAMUEL  WOODWORTH 

The  Old  Oaken  Bucket         ........       27 

RICHARD   HENRY   WILDE 

My  Life  is  Like  the  Summer  Rose        .....         ^       29 

JOHN    HOWARD    PAYNE 

Home,  Sweet  Home!  .........       3° 

FITZ-GREENE   HALLECK 

On  the  Death  of  Joseph  Rodman  Drake       .....       31 
Marco  Bozzaris     ........  32 

JOSEPH    RODMAN   DRAKE 


The  American  Flag      .. 

7 


8  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

EDWARD   CO  ATE    PINKNEY 

A  Health 39 

A  Serenade  ..........       4° 

GEORGE   POPE   MORRIS 

Woodman,  spare  that  Tree ! 41 

ALBERT  GORTON  GREENE 

The  Baron's  Last  Banquet 42 

NATHANIEL  PARKER  WILLIS 

Unseen  Spirits      ..........       45 

Spring 46 

CHARLES    FENNO    HOFFMAN 

Monterey 47 

SAMUEL  FRANCIS  SMITH 

America        ........«••       49 

PARK  BENJAMIN 

The  Old  Sexton ...       50 

EPES   SARGENT 

A  Life  on  the  Ocean  Wave 51 

PHILIP    PENDLETON   COOKE 

Florence  Vane 52 

THOMAS   DUNN    ENGLISH 

Ben  Bolt 54 

MIDDLE    PERIOD 

I.     BRYANT,    EMERSON,    LONGFELLOW,    WHITTIER,    POE, 
HOLMES,   AND    LOWELL 

WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT 

Thanatopsis 5^ 

The  Flood  of  Years 60 

The  Battlefield 65 

The  Death  of  the  Flowers 66 

The  Evening  Wind ^7 

To  the  Fringed  Gentian 69 

To  a  Waterfowl 69 

America                          71 


CONTENTS  9 

PAGE 

RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON 

Concord  Hymn •         •         •  75 

The  Problem '75 

Each  and  All 78 j 

Days 79 

Forbearance So 

The  Humble-bee 80 

The  Snow-storm .82 

The  Rhodora 83 

Good-by,  Proud  World ! 83 

HENRY   WADSWORTII    LONGFELLOW 

The  Skeleton  in  Armor 86 

The  Cumberland            .         „ 91 

The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus          .                   93 

The  Village  Blacksmith 96 

The  Bridge 98 

The  Day  is  Done ,  100 

My  Lost  Youth     ..........  101 

The  Poet  and  his  Songs 104 

Nature 105 

Hymn  to  the  Night 106 

In  the  Churchyard  at  Tarrytown 106 

The  Republic 107 

Daybreak     . 108 

JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 

Proem 1 10 

Ichabod        .         .         .         . 112 

The  Lost  Occasion 113 

The  Farewell 115 

Laus  Deo  ! 118 

Skipper  Ireson's  Ride 120 

The  Barefoot  Boy 123 

Telling  the  Bees 126 

My  Playmate 128 

Amy  Wentworth 130 

The  Eternal  Goodness 132 

EDGAR   ALLAN   POE 

To  Helen 139 

To  One  in  Paradise 139 


I0  CONTENTS 


The  Bells      ...........  '4° 

The  Raven    ...........  J44 

The  Haunted  Palace     .........  14$ 

The  City  in  the  Sea      .........  *49 

Israfel            ...........  I5I 

The  Sleeper           .         .         .         •         •         .....  T53 

Ulalume        ...........  '55 

Annabel  Lee         ..........  !58 

OLIVER    WENDELL   HOLMES 

i/    Old  Ironsides 


The  Last  Leaf      ..........  l62 

The  Chambered  Nautilus      ........  l64 

The  Living  Temple       .........  l65 

Nearing  the  Snow-line          ........  l()7 

The  Boys      ...........  l67 

JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL 

What  is  so  Rare  as  a  Day  in  June?       ......  I7l 

The  Courtin'         ..........  I73 

A  Vision  of  Peace.     (From  The  fiiglow  Papers'} 

.   Lincoln         ...........  !78 

%  Virginia.     (From  Under  ike  OU  Kim}         ..... 

To  the  Dandelion          .........  lSl 


Hebe 

She  Came  and  Went    ........ 

Auf  Wiedersehen          .........     f   5 

IT.     ADDITIONAL   POETS 

WALT   WHITMAN 

O  Captain  !   My  Captain  !      ........ 

As  Toilsome  I  wandered  Virginia's  Woods  .....     J    7 

When  Lilacs  last  in  the  Dooryard  Bloom'd  ..... 

HENRY   PETERSON 

From  an  Ode  for  Decoration  Day         ...... 

WILLIAM    WETMORE   STORY 

Io  Victis       ...........     I94 

JV-LIA   WARD    HOWE 

Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic       .        .        .        t        *        »        •     Z9 


CONTENTS  1 1 

PAGE 

THOMAS    WILLIAM    PARSONS 

On  a  Bust  of  Dante 197 

THEODORE   O'HARA 

The  Bivouac  of  the  Dead 199 

THOMAS   BUCHANAN   READ 

Drifting        ...........     203 

JOHN    RANDOLPH   THOMPSON 

Music  in  Camp     ..........     206 

FRANCIS   ORRERY   TICKNOR 

Little  Giffen „     209 

GEORGE   HENRY   BOKER 

A  Ballad  of  Sir  John  Franklin 210 

Dirge  for  a  Soldier 215 

BAYARD   TAYLOR 

Bedouin  Song 216 

America 218 

RICHARD  HENRY   STODDARD 

Abraham  Lincoln         .........     219    •. 

FRANCIS   MILES   FINCH 

The  Blue  and  the  Gray         ........     225 

JOHN  TOWNSEND   TROWBRIDGE 

The  Vagabonds 227     • 

MARGARET   JUNKIN   PRESTON 

A  Grave  in  Hollywood  Cemetery,  Richmond  (J.  R.  T.)        .         .231 
STEPHEN    COLLINS   FOSTER 

My  Old  Kentucky  Home 233  I/" 

WILLIAM    RAINES   LYTLE 

Antony  to  Cleopatra 234 

HENRY  TIMROD 

Charleston 236  v 

At  Magnolia  Cemetery 237 


12  CONTENTS 

PAGE 
PAUL   HAMILTON    HAYNE 

A  Little  While  I  fain  would  linger  Yet          .....     238 
The  Mocking  Bird 240 

EDMUND    CLARENCE  STEDMAN 

Kearny  at  Seven  Pines 241 

THOMAS    BAILEY   ALDRICII 

Unguarded  Gates 242 

Palabras  Carifiosas •  244 

Batuschka ....  244 

JOHN    HAY 

Jim  Bludso  of  the  Prairie  Belle 246 

JAMES    RYDER    RANDALL 

My  Maryland 248 

ABRAM    JOSEPH    RYAN 

The  Conquered  Banner 25 ' 

ANONYMOUS 

The  Confederate  Flag •         •     252 

BRET    IIARTE 

Juhn  Burns  of  Gettysburg 254 

Chiquita 258 

The  Aged  Stranger 259 

EDWARD    ROWLAND   SILL 

The  Fool's  Prayer 2o1 

The  Future  .... 

Eve's  Daughter ^        •     263 

WILLIAM    GORDON    McCABE 

Christmas  Night  of  '62          . 264 

JOAQUIN   MILLER 

Columbus 266 

Westward  Ho! 267 


SIDNEY   LANIER 

Song  of  the  Chattahoochee 
Tampa  Robins      . 


CONTENTS  13 

PAGE 

ETHEL   LYNN   BEERS 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac 272 

WILLIAM  TUCKEY   MEREDITH 

Farragut 273 

RICHARD    WATSON   GILDER 

Sherman 276 

Great  Nature  is  an  Army  Cay  276 

MARY   WOOLSEY    HOWLANI) 

In  the  Hospital 277 

LLOYD    MIFFLIN 

Sesostris 278 

MAURICE  THOMPSON 

A  Prophecy 279 

WILL   HENRY  THOMPSON 

The  High  Tide  at  Gettysburg 280 

LATER   PERIOD 

HENRY   VAN   DYKE 

Tennyson 283 

An  Angler's  Wish 285 

The  Song  Sparrow        .........  286 

EUGENE   FIELD 

Wynken,  Blynken,  and  Nod          .         .         .  .         .         .     287 

Little  Boy  Blue 289 

EDWIN   MARKHAM 

The  Man  with  the  Hoe 290 

JOHN   VANCE   CHENEY 

The  Man  with  the  Hoe.     A  Reply       „ 292 

EDITH    MATILDA  THOMAS 

Mother  England 294 

The  Mother  who  died  Too  ........     295 


14  CONTENTS 

JAMES   WHITCOMB   RILEY 

The  Old  Man  and  Jim 296 

Ike  Walton's  Prayer 298 

EUGENE   FITCH    WARE 

Quivera  —  Kansas        .........     300 

CHARLES   HENRY   LUDERS 

The  Four  Winds 303 

HENRY   CUYLER    BUNNER 

The  Way  to  Arcady 304 

The  Chaperon 307 

FRANK   DEMPSTER   SHERMAN 

On  a  Greek  Vase  ..........     309 

On  Some  Buttercups     .........     309 

LOUISE   IMOGEN   GUINEY 

The  Wild  Ride 310 

RICHARD    HOVEY 

The  Call  of  the  Bugles 311 

Unmanifest  Destiny 314 

Love  in  the  Winds 315 

WILLIAM   VAUGHN    MOODY 

Robert  Gould  Shaw 316 

We  are  our  Fathers'  Sons 318 

On  a  Soldier  fallen  in  the  Philippines 319 

CAROLINE   DUER 

An  International  Episode 32° 

GUY   WETMORE   CARRYL 

\Vhen  the  Great  Gray  Ships  come  In 322 

JOSEPH    B.    GILDER 

The  Parting  of  the  Ways 324 

NOTES  .  325 


AMERICAN    POEMS 

EARLY    PERIOD 

PHILIP    FRENEAU 

1752-1832 

FRENEAU  was  born  of  French  Huguenot  parentage  in  New  York 
city.,  and  died  at  '"  Mount  Pleasant,"  Monmouth  County,  New  Jersey. 
He  was  graduated  from  Princeton  in  1771,  where  James  Madison,  after 
ward  fourth  President  of  the  United  States,  was  his  classmate  and 
roommate.  Another  fellow-student  was  Light  Horse  Harry  Lee. 
These  quick-witted  youths  breathed  in  together  the  air  of  burning 
patriotism  which  came  from  John  Witherspoon,  then  president  of 
Princeton,  and  each  did  a  strong  man's  work  in  the  great  struggle 
which  followed  so  soon  after  they  were  graduated.  Freneau  was  the 
least  brilliant  figure  of  the  three,  but  his  labors  in  the  cause  of  liberty 
were  not  less  arduous  or  steadfast,  or  his  courage  and  patriotism  less 
high. 

Freneau's  long  life  was  one  of  great  activity.  He  studied  law,  but 
afterward  became  a  journalist  and  a  practical  navigator,  and  was  inter 
ested  besides  in  various  business  enterprises.  During  his  lifetime  he 
was  known  chiefly  as  a  patriotic  satirist  in  verse  and  as  a  partisan 
journalist.  None  of  his  satires  are  familiar  to  readers  of  to-day,  but 
they  were  effective  in  their  own  day  in  quickening  public  sentiment  and 
in  keeping  the  torch  of  liberty  aflame.  His  fame  to-day  rests  rather 
upon  a  handful  of  lyrics  which  have  simplicity,  sincerity,  and  beauty. 
Not  even  his  most  enthusiastic  admirers  would  maintain  that  these  lyrics 
are  to  be  placed  by  the  side  of  the  greatest  literary  masterpieces,  but 
they  do  have  qualities  that  will  long  keep  the  name  of  Freneau  alive. 

That  this  patriot,  partisan,  and  poet  should  have  met  a  sudden  death 
is  only  in  keeping  with  his  tempestuous  life.  At  the  age  of  eighty, 
when  returning  home  late  one  stormy  night  from  a  gathering  of  friends, 
he  tell  and  broke  his  hip  ;  next  morning  he  was  found  dead  in  the  snow. 


EARLY   PERIOD 


THE    INDIAN    BURYING   GROUND 

IN  spite  of  all  the  learned  have  said, 

I  still  my  old  opinion  keep  ; 
The  posture  that  we  give  the  dead 

Points  out  the  soul's  eternal  sleep. 

Not  so  the  ancients  of  these  lands;  — 
The  Indian,  when  from  life  released, 

Again  is  seated  with  his  friends, 
And  shares  again  the  joyous  feast. 

His  imaged  birds,  and  painted  bowl, 
And  venison,  for  a  journey  dressed, 

Bespeak  the  nature  of  the  soul, 
Activity,  that  wants  no  rest. 

His  bow  for  action  ready  bent, 
And  arrows  with  a  head  of  stone, 

Can  only  mean  that  life  is  spent, 
And  not  the  old  ideas  gone. 

Thou,  stranger,  that  shalt  come  this  way, 
No  fraud  upon  the  dead  commit,  — 

Observe  the  swelling  turf,  and  say, 
They  do  not  lie,  but  here  they  sit. 

Here  still  a  lofty  rock  remains, 

On  which  the  curious  eye  may  trace 

(Now  wasted  half  by  wearing  rains) 
The  fancies  of  a  ruder  race. 

Here  still  an  aged  elm  aspires, 

Beneath  whose  far-  projecting  shade 

(And  which  the  shepherd  still  admires) 
The  children  of  the  forest  played. 


FRENEAU  if 

There  oft  a  restless  Indian  queen 

(Pale  Shebah  with  her  braided  hair), 
And  many  a  barbarous  form  is  seen 

To  chide  the  man  that  lingers  there. 

By  midnight  moons,  o'er  moistening  dews,  5 

In  habit  for  the  chase  arrayed, 
The  hunter  still  the  deer  pursues, 

The  hunter  and  the  deer  —  a  shade  ! 

And  long  shall  timorous  Fancy  see 

The  painted  chief,  and  pointed  spear,  i0 

And  Reason's  self  shall  bow  the  knee 

To  shadows  and  delusions  here. 


THE   WILD    HONEYSUCKLE 

FAIR  flower,  that  dost  so  comely  grow, 

Hid  in  this  silent,  dull  retreat, 

Untouched  thy  honied  blossoms  blow,  ,5 

Unseen  thy  little  branches  greet : 
No  roving  foot  shall  crush  thee  here, 
No  busy  hand  provoke  a  tear. 

By  Nature's  self  in  white  arrayed, 

She  bade  thee  shun  the  vulgar  eye,  20 

And  planted  here  the  guardian  shade, 
And  sent  soft  waters  murmuring  by; 
Thus  quietly  thy  summer  goes, 
Thy  days  declining  to  repose. 

Smit  with  those  charms,  that  must  decay,  25 

I  grieve  to  see  your  future  doom ; 
They  died  —  nor  were  those  flowers  more  gay, 

The  flowers  that  did  in  Eden  bloom; 

LONG'S  AM.  POEMS  —  2 


EARLY    PERIOD 

Unpitying  frosts  and  Autumn's  power 
Shall  leave  no  vestige  of  this  flower. 

From  morning  suns  and  evening  dews 

At  first  thy  little  being  came  ; 
If  nothing  once,  you  nothing  lose, 
For  when  you  die  you  are  the  same ; 
The  space  between  is  but  an  hour, 
The  frail  duration  of  a  flower. 


EUTAW   SPRINGS 

AT  Eutaw  Springs  the  valiant  died  : 

Their  limbs  with  dust  are  covered  o'er ; 

Weep  on,  ye  springs,  your  tearful  tide ; 
How  many  heroes  are  no  more  ! 

If  in  this  wreck  of  ruin  they 

Can  yet  be  thought  to  claim  a  tear, 

O  smite  thy  gentle  breast,  and  say 

The  friends  of  freedom  slumber  here  ! 

Thou,  who  shalt  trace  this  bloody  plain, 
If  goodness  rules  thy  generous  breast, 

Sigh  for  the  wasted  rural  reign  ; 

Sigh  for  the  shepherds  sunk  to  rest  ! 

Stranger,  their  humble  groves  adorn ; 

You  too  may  fall,  and  ask  a  tear: 
Tis  not  the  beauty  of  the  morn 

That  proves  the  evening  shall  be  clear. 

They  saw  their  injured  country's  woe, 
The  flaming  town,  the  wasted  field  ; 

Then  rushed  to  meet  the  insulting  foe  ; 
They  took  the  spear  —  but  left  the  shield. 


HOPKINSON  19 

Led  by  thy  conquering  standards,  Greene, 

The  Britons  they  compelled  to  fly  : 
None  distant  viewed  the  fatal  plain, 

None  grieved  in  such  a  cause  to  die  — 

But,  like  the  Parthians  famed  of  old,  5 

Who,  flying,  still  their  arrows  threw, 

These  routed  Britons,  full  as  bold, 
Retreated,  and  retreating  slew. 

Now  rest  in  peace  our  patriot  band  ; 

Though  far  from  nature's  limits  thrown,  10 

We  trust  they  find  a  happier  land, 

A  brighter  Phoebus  of  their  own. 

JOSEPH    HOPKINSON 

1770-1842 

IT  was  fitting  that  the  author  si  Hail  Columbia  should  be  the  son  of 
a  signer  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence,  Francis  Hopkinson,  law 
yer,  wit,  and  patriot.  Joseph  Hopkinson  was  born  and  died  in  Phila 
delphia,  where  he  rose  to  distinction  as  a  lawyer  and  as  a  man  of  parts. 
He  is  chiefly  remembered  to-day  by  this  one  patriotic  lyric.  It  was 
written  in  1798,  when  the  United  States  seemed  on  the  verge  of  war 
with  France.  Washington  had  been  called  from  retirement  at  Mount 
Vernon  to  assume  charge  of  the  American  forces  in  case  war  should 
actually  break  out.  The  ode  was  sung  first  in  Philadelphia  at  the 
benefit  performance  of  an  actor,  but  its  broader  purpose  was  to  allay 
all  bitterness  between  the  two  political  parties  in  the  United  States  by 
appealing  in  a  spirited  way  to  the  feeling  of  national  patriotism. 

HAIL   COLUMBIA 

HAIL,  Columbia  !  happy  land  ! 

Hail,  ye  heroes  !  heaven-born  band  ! 

Who  fought  and  bled  in  Freedom's  cause,  15 

Who  fought  and  bled  in  Freedom's  cause, 


20  EARLY   PERIOD 

And  when  the  storm  of  war  was  gone, 
Enjoyed  the  peace  your  valor  won. 

Let  independence  be  our  boast, 

Ever  mindful  what  it  cost ; 

Ever  grateful  for  the  prize,  5 

Let  its  altar  reach  the  skies» 

Firm,  united,  let  us  be, 

Rallying  round  our  Liberty ; 

As  a  band  of  brothers  joined, 

Peace  and  safety  we  shall  find.  10 

Immortal  patriots  !  rise  once  more  : 
Defend  your  rights,  defend  your  shore  : 

Let  no  rude  foe,  with  impious  hand, 

Let  no  rude  foe,  with  impious  hand, 
Invade  the  shrine  where  sacred  lies  15 

Of  toil  and  blood  the  well-earned  prize. 

While  offering  peace  sincere  and  just, 

In  Heaven  we  place  a  manly  trust, 

That  truth  and  justice  will  prevail, 

And  every  scheme  of  bondage  fail.  20 

Firm,  united,  etc. 

Sound,  sound,  the  trump  of  Fame  ! 
Let  WASHINGTON'S  great  name 

Ring  through  the  world  with  loud  applause, 

Ring  through  the  world  with  loud  applause  ;  •  25 

Let  every  clime  to  Freedom  dear, 
Listen  with  a  joyful  ear. 

With  equal  skill,  and  godlike  power, 

He  governed  in  the  fearful  hour 

Of  horrid  war:  or  guides,  with  ease,  30 

The  happier  times  of  honest  peace. 

Firm,  united,  etc. 


KEY  21 

Behold  the  chief  who  now  commands, 
Once  more  to  serve  his  country,  stands  — 
The  rock  on  which  the  storm  will  beat, 
The  rock  on  which  the  storm  will  beat ; 
But,  armed  in  virtue  firm  and  true,  5 

His  hopes  are  fixed  on  Heaven  and  you. 
When  hope  was  sinking  in  dismay, 
And  glooms  obscured  Columbia's  day, 
His  steady  mind,  from  changes  free, 
Resolved  on  death  or  liberty.  10 

Firm,  united,  let  us  be, 
Rallying  round  our  Liberty ; 
As  a  band  of  brothers  joined, 
Peace  and  safety  we  shall  find. 

FRANCIS    SCOTT    KEY 

1779-1843 

KEY  was  born  in  Frederick  County,  Maryland,  and  was  educated  at 
St.  John's  College,  Annapolis.  When  the  British  bombarded  Fort 
McHenry  at  Baltimore,  in  1814,  Key  was  with  the  British  fleet,  having 
gone  there  to  secure  the  release  of  a  friend  who  was  held  prisoner.  All 
night  he  watched  the  battle.  When  he  saw  the  American  flag  still 
afloat  the  next  morning,  he  sat  down  and  wrote  TJie  Star-Spangled 
Banner,  one  of  the  most  popular  of  American  patriotic  songs. 

A  volume  of  Key's  poems  was  published  at  Baltimore  in  1859,  with 
an  introductory  letter  by  his  brother-in-law,  Chief  Justice  Taney.  The 
volume  consists  largely  of  occasional  pieces  that  were  not  originally 
intended  for  publication.  They  add  little  or  nothing  to  his  fame.  The 
greater  part  of  his  life  was  given  to  the  practice  of  law  in  Washington. 

THE   STAR-SPANGLED    BANNER 

O  SAY,  can  you  see,  by  the  dawn's  early  light,  15 

What  so  proudly  we  hailed  at  the  twilight's  last  gleaming  — 


22  EARLY    PERIOD 

Whose  broad  stripes  and  bright  stars,  through  the  clouds  of  the 

fight, 

O'er  the  ramparts  we  watched  were  so  gallantly  streaming  ! 
And  the  rocket's  red  glare,  the  bombs  bursting  in  air, 
Gave  proof  through  the  night  that  our  flag  was  still  there  j 
O  !  say,  does  that  star-spangled  banner  yet  wave  5 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave? 

On  that  shore  dimly  seen  through  the  mists  of  the  deep, 
Where  the  foe's  haughty  host  in  dread  silence  reposes, 

What  is  that  which  the  breeze,  o'er  the  towering  steep, 

As  it  fitfully  blows,  now  conceals,  now  discloses?  ic 

Now  it  catches  the  gleam  of  the  morning's  first  beam, 

In  full  glory  reflected  now  shines  on  the  stream  ; 

Tis  the  star-spangled  banner ;  O  long  may  it  wave 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave  ! 

And  where  is  that  band  who  so  vauntingly  swore  15 

That  the  havoc  of  war  and  the  battle's  confusion 
A  home  and  a  country  should  leave  us  no  more  ? 

Their  blood  has  washed  out  their  foul  footsteps'  pollution. 
No  refuge  could  save  the  hireling  and  slave 

From  the  terror  of  flight,  or  the  gloom  of  the  grave  ;  20 

And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  doth  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 

O  !  thus  be  it  ever,  when  freemen  shall  stand 

Between  their  loved  homes  and  the  war's  desolation  ! 
Blest  with  victory  and  peace,  may  the  heav'n-rescued  land  25 

Praise  the  power  that  hath  made  and  preserved  us  a  nation. 
Then  conquer  we  must,  when  our  cause  it  is  just, 
And  this  be  our  motto,  —  "  In  God  is  our  trust:  " 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  shall  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave.  30 


MOORE  23 

CLEMENT   CLARKE    MOORE 

1779-1863 

THE  author  of  A  Visit  from  St.  Nicholas,  a  household  favorite,  was 
born  in  New  York  city  and  educated  at  Columbia  College.  For  many 
years  he  held  a  professorship  in  the  General  Theological  Seminary  of 
the  Episcopal  Church.  A  collection  of  his  verse  was  published  in 
1844,  but  he  is  remembered  now  almost  solely  by  this  Christmas  piece, 
with  its  brisk  movement  and  cheery  temper.  It  was  written  for  his  chil 
dren  at  Christmas,  and  was  sent  without  his  knowledge  to  a  newspaper, 
where  it  appeared  anonymously. 

A   VISIT   FROM    ST.    NICHOLAS 

'TWAS  the  night  before  Christmas,  when  all  through  the  house 

Not  a  creature  was  stirring,  not  even  a  mouse ; 

The  stockings  were  hung  by  the  chimney  with  care, 

In  hopes  that  St.  Nicholas  soon  would  be  there ; 

The  children  were  nestled  all  snug  in  their  beds,  5 

While  visions  of  sugar  plums  danced  in  their  heads ; 

And  mamma  in  her  'kerchief,  and  I  in  my  cap, 

Had  just  settled  our  brains  for  a  long  winter's  nap, 

When  out  on  the  lawn  there  arose  such  a  clatter, 

I  sprang  from  the  bed  to  see  what  was  the  matter.  10 

Away  to  the  window  I  flew  like  a  flash, 

Tore  open  the  shutters  and  threw  up  the  sash. 

The  moon  on  the  breast  of  the  new-fallen  snow  ' 

Gave  the  luster  of  midday  to  objects  below, 

When,  what  to  my  wondering  eyes  should  appear,  15 

But  a  miniature  sleigh,  and  eight  tiny  reindeer, 

With  a  little  old  driver,  so  lively  and  quick, 

I  knew  in  a  moment  it  must  be  St.  Nick. 

More  rapid  than  eagles  his  coursers  they  came, 

And  he  whistled,  and  shouted,  and  called  them  by  name  ;        20 

"  Now,  Dasher  !  now,  Dancer  !  now,  Prancer  and  Vixen  ! 


EARLY    PERIOD 

On,  Comet!  on,  Cupid!  on,  Donder  and  Blitzen  ! 
To  the  top  of  the  porch  !  to  the  top  of  the  wall ! 
Now  dash  away  !  dash  away  !  dash  away  all !  " 
As  dry  leaves  that  before  the  wild  hurricane  fly, 
When  they  meet  with  an  obstacle,  mount  to  the  sky ;  5 

So  up  to  the  house  top  the  coursers  they  flew, 
..With  the  sleigh  full  of  toys,  and  St.  Nicholas,  too. 
^nd  then,  in  a  twinkling,  I  heard  on  the  roof 
''  /The  prancing  and  pawing  of  each  little  hoof, 
.^s'ldr^w  in  my  Ivead,  and  vvas-turning  around,  10 

Rewrr  tire-chimney  St.  Nicholas  came  with  a-bonnd. 
He  was  dressed  all  in  fur,  from  his  head  to  his  foot, 
And  his  clothes  were  all  tarnished  with  ashes  and  soot ; 
A  bundle  of  toys  he  had  flung  on  his  back, 
And  he  looked  like  a  pedler  just  opening  his  pack.  15 

His  eyes  —  how  they  twinkled  !  his  dimples  how  merry  ! 
His  cheeks  were  like  roses,  his  nose  like  a  cherry  ! 
His  droll  little  mouth  was  drawn  up  like  a  bow, 
And  the  beard  of  his  chin  was  as  white  as  the  snow ; 
The  stump  of  a  pipe  he  held  tight  in  his  teeth, 
And  the  smoke  it  encircled  his  head  like  a  wreath ; 
He  had  a  broad  face  and  a  little  round  belly, 
That  shook  when  he  laughed  like  a  bowlful  of  jelly. 
He  was  chubby  and  plump!  a  right  jolly  old  elf, 
And  I  laughed  when  I  saw  him,  in  spite  of  myself; 
A  wink  of  his  eye  and  a  twist  of  his  head, 
Soon  gave  me  to  know  I  had  nothing  to  dread  ; 
He  spoke  not  a  word,  but  went  straight  to  his  work, 
.And  -Tilled  all  the  stocking*;  then  turned  with  a  jerk, 
And  laying  his  finger  aside  of  his  nose,  3° 

And  giving  a  nod,  up  the  chimney  he  rose  ; 
to  his  sleigh,  to  his 


And  away  they  all  flew  like  the  down  of  a  thistle. 

But  I  heard  him  exclaim,  ere  he  drove' out  of  sight, 

"Happy  Christmas  to  all,  and  to  all  a  good  night"  35 


PIERPONT  25 

JOHN    PIERPONT 

f 

1785-1866 

PIERPONT  was  born  at  Litchfield,  Connecticut.  After  being  graduated 
from  Yale,  he  was  successively  a  teacher,  a  business  man,  a  lawyer,  and 
finally  a  Unitarian  minister.  For  twenty-six  years  he  was  pastor  of  the 
Hollis  Street  Church,  Boston,  and  was  an  ardent  supporter  of  the  aboli 
tion  movement  —  a  movement  very  active  in  the  neighborhood  of  his 
church.  At  the  age  of  seventy-six  he  volunteered  as  a  chaplain  in  the 
Civil  War,  but  his  age  and  bodily  infirmities  prevented  much  active 
service.  He  was  appointed  to  a  clerkship  in  the  government  service  at 
Washington,  a  position  which  he  held  until  his  death. 

THE    EXILE   AT    REST 

His  falchion  flashed  along  the  Nile ; 

His  hosts  he  led  through  Alpine  snows  ; 
O'er  Moscow's  towers,  that  shook  the  while, 

His  eagle  flag  unrolled, — and  froze. 

Here  sleeps  he  now,  alone;  —  not  one  5 

Of  all  the  kings  whose  crowns  he  gave, 

Nor  sire,  nor  brother,  wife,  nor  son, 
Hath  ever  seen  or  sought  his  grave. 

Here  sleeps  he  now,  alone  ;  —  the  star, 

That  led  him  on  from  crown  to  crown,  10 

Hath  sunk  ;  —  the  nations  from  afar 

Gazed,  as  it  faded  and  went  down. 

He  sleeps  alone  ;  —  the  mountain  cloud 

That  night  hangs  round  him,  and  the  breath 

Of  morning  scatters,  is  the  shroud  15 

That  wraps  his  martial  form  in  death. 


26  EARLY   PERIOD 

High  is  his  couch  ;  —  the  ocean  flood 

Far,  far  below  by  storms  is  curled, 
As  round  him  heaved,  while  high  he  stood, 

A  stormy  and  inconstant  world. 

Hark  !     Comes  there  from  the  Pyramids,  5 

And  from  Siberia's  waste  of  snow, 
And  Europe's  fields,  a  voice  that  bids 

The  world  be  awed  to  mourn  him?  —  No;  — 

The  only,  the  perpetual  dirge, 

That's  heard  here,  is  the  sea  bird's  cry,  10 

The  mournful  murmur  of  the  surge, 

The  cloud's  deep  voice,  the  wind's  low  sigh. 

WARREN'S   ADDRESS   TO   THE    AMERICAN    SOLDIERS 

STAND  !  the  ground's  your  own,  my  braves  ! 

Will  ye  give  it  up  to  slaves  ? 

Will  ye  look  for  greener  graves  ?  15 

Hope  ye  mercy  still  ? 
What's  the  mercy  despots  feel? 
Hear  it  in  that  battle  peal ! 
Read  it  on  yon  bristling  steel ! 

Ask  it,  —  ye  who  will.  20 

Fear'ye  foes  who  kill  for  hire  ? 
Will  ye  to  your  homes  retire  ? 
Look  behind  you  !  they're  a-fire  ! 

And,  before  you,  see 

Who  have  done  it  !  —  From  the  vale  25 

On  they  come  !  —  And  will  ye  quail  ?  — 
Leaden  rain  and  iron  hail 

Let  their  welcome  be  ! 


WOODWORTH  27 

In  the  God  of  battles  trust  ! 

Die  we  may,  —  and  die  we  must; 

But,  O,  where  can  dust  to  dust 

Be  consigned  so  well, 

As  where  Heaven  its  dews  shall  shed  5 

On  the  martyred  patriot's  b^d, 
And  the  rocks  shall  raise  their  head, 

Of  his  deeds  to  tell ! 

THE    BALLOT 

A  WEAPON  that  conies  down  as  still 

As  snowflakes  fall  upon  the  sod ;  10 

But  executes  a  freeman's  will, 

As  lightning  does  the  will  of  God. 

SAMUEL    WOODWORTH 

1785-1842 

WOODWORTH  was  born  at  Scituate,  Massachusetts,  and  died  in  New 
York  city.  The  poem  given  here  (first  entitled  "The  Bucket1')  is  the 
only  one  of  a  volume  of  verse  which  is  now  remembered.  He  wrote  sev 
eral  operettas  and  dramatic  pieces,  but  these  have  long  since  been  for 
gotten.  He  was  associated  with  Willis  and  others  in  the  editorship  of 
the  Arew  York  Mirror,  a  journal  of  considerable  literary  note  in  its  day. 

THE    OLD    OAKEN    BUCKET 

How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  childhood, 

When  fond  recollection  presents  them  to  view ! 
The  orchard,  the  meadow,  the  deep-tangled  wild  wood,        15 

And  every  loved  spot  which  my  infancy  knew  ! 
The  wide-spreading  pond,  and  the  mill  that  stood  by  it, 

The  bridge,  and  the  rock  where  the  cataract  fell, 
The  cot  of  my  father,  the  dairy  house  nigh  it, 

And  e'en  the  rude  bucket  that  hung  in  the  well  —  20 


28  EARLY   PERIOD 

The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket  which  hung  in  the  well. 

That  moss-covered  vessel  I  hailed  as  a  treasure, 

For  often  at  noon,  when  returned  from  the  field, 
I  found  it  the  source  of  an  exquisite  pleasure, 

The  purest  and  sweetest  that  nature  can  yield. 
How  ardent  I  seized  it,  with  hands  that  were  glowing, 

And  quick  to  the  white-pebbled  bottom  it  fell ; 
Then  soon,  with  the  emblem  of  truth  overflowing, 

And  dripping  with  coolness,  it  rose  from  the  well  — 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket  arose  from  the  well. 

How  sweet  from  the  green  mossy  brim  to  receive  it, 

As  poised  on  the  curb  it  inclined  to  my  lips  ! 
Not  a  full  blushing  goblet  could  tempt  me  to  leave  it, 

The  brightest  that  beauty  or  revelry  sips. 
And  now,  far  removed  from  the  loved  habitation, 

The  tear  of  regret  will  intrusively  swell, 
As  fancy  reverts  to  my  father's  plantation, 

And  sighs  for  the  bucket  that  hangs  in  the  well  — 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss- covered  bucket  that  hanes  in  the  well ! 


RICHARD    HENRY   WILDE 

1789-1847 

MANY  of  the  poets  of  this  early  period  —  notably  Freneau,  Key,  and 
Wilde  —  were  men  of  affairs  in  the  main,  whose  verse  making  occupied 
only  their  leisure  hours.  Nearly  all  of  them  are  remembered  to-day  by 
only  one  or  two  poems.  The  bulk  of  their  writings  has  gone  the  way 
of  most  occasional  verse.  It  was,  in  most  cases,  hastily  put  together, 
and  was  lacking  in  depth  and  sincerity  of  feeling,  as  well  as  in  grace  of 
form. 


WILDE 


29 


Wilde  was  born  at  Dublin,  Ireland.  When  he  was  a  mere  boy  his 
family  came  to  America  and  settled  in  Baltimore.  After  the  death  of 
his  father,  he  removed  with  his  mother  to  Georgia,  where  he  studied 
law  and  entered  politics.  He  served  several  terms  as  a  member  of 
Congress  from  his  adopted  state.  After  traveling  abroad  for  several 
years,  he  settled  in  New  Orleans  and  devoted  the  remainder  of  his  life 
to  the  successful  study  and  practice  of  the  civil  law. 

MY   LIFE    IS   LIKE   THE   SUMMER   ROSE 

MY  life  is  like  the  summer  rose, 

That  opens  to  the  morning  sky, 
But,  ere  the  shades  of  evening  close, 

Is  scattered  on  the  ground  —  to  die  ! 
Yet  on  the  rose's  humble  bed  5 

The  sweetest  dews  of  night  are  shed, 
As  if  she  wept  the  waste  to  see  — 
But  none  shall  weep  a  tear  for  me  ! 

My  life  is  like  the  autumn  leaf 

That  trembles  in  the  moon's  pale  ray  :  10 

Its  hold  is  frail  —  its  date  is  brief, 

Restless  —  and  soon  to  pass  away  ! 
Yet,  ere  that  leaf  shall  fall  and  fade, 
The  parent  tree  will  mourn  its  shade, 
The  winds  bewail  the  leafless  tree —  15 

But  none  shall  breathe  a  sigh  for  me  ! 

My  life  is  like  the  prints,  which  feet 

Have  left  on  Tampa's  desert  strand  ; 
Soon  as  the  rising  tide  shall  beat, 

All  trace  will  vanish  from  the  sand  ;  ^o 

Yet,  as  if  grieving  to  efface 
All  vestige  of  the  human  race, 
On  that  lone  shore  loud  moans  the  sea  — 
But  none,  alas  !  shall  mourn  for  me  ! 


30  EARLY   PERIOD 

JOHN    HOWARD    PAYNE 

1791-1852 

THE  life  of  John  Howard  Payne  is  of  unusual  interest.  He  was  born 
in  New  York  city  and  entered  Union  College.  He  left  college  early, 
however,  and  took  to  the  stage.  He  won  popularity  as  an  actor  both 
in  America  and  in  England.  He  also  wrote  plays  and  operas.  The 
song  Home,  Sweet  Home,  first  appeared  in  his  opera,  Clari,  the  Maid 
of  Milan,  which  was  produced  at  Co  vent  Garden  Theater,  London,  in 
1823.  He  died  at  Tunis,  Africa,  where  he  was  serving  as  United  States 
consul.  In  1883,  at  the  expense  of  the  late  Mr.  W.  W.  Corcoran,  the 
philanthropist,  his  remains  were  removed  to  Washington. 

HOME,    SWEET   HOME! 

MID  pleasures  and  palaces  though  we  may  roam, 

Be  it  ever  so  humble,  there's  no  place  like  home ; 

A  charm  from  the  sky  seems  to  hallow  us  there, 

Which,  seek  through  the  world,  is  ne'er  met  with  elsewhere. 

Home,  Home,  sweet,  sweet  Home  !  5 

There's  no  place  like  Home  !  there's  no  place  like  Home  ! 

An  exile  from  home,  splendor  dazzles  in  vain ; 

O,  give  me  my  lowly  thatched  cottage  again  ! 

The  birds  singing  gayly,  that  came  at  my  call,  — 

Give  me  them,  —  and  the  peace  of  mind,  dearer  than  all !   10 

Home,  Home,  sweet,  sweet  Home  ! 
There's  no  place  like  Home  !  there's  no  place  like  Home  ! 

How  sweet  'tis  to  sit  'neath  a  fond  father's  smile, 

And  the  cares  of  a  mother  to  soothe  and  beguile  ! 

Let  others  delight  mid  new  pleasures  to  roam,  15 

But  give  me,  oh,  give  me,  the  pleasures  of  home  ! 

Home  !  Home  !  sweet,  sweet  Home  ! 
There's  no  place  like  Home  !  there's  no  place  like  Home  ! 


HALLL<;CK 


To  thee  I'll  return,  overburdened  with  care  ; 
The  heart's  dearest  solace  will  smile  on  me  there; 
No  more  from  that  cottage  again  will  I  roam  ; 
Be  it  ever  so  humble,  there's  no  place  like  home. 


Home  !  Home  !  sweet,  sweet  Home 


5 


There's  no  place  like  Home  !  there's  no  place  like  Home  ! 

FITZ-GREENE    HALLECK 

1795-1867 

HALLECK,  the  friend  and  co-laborer  of  Drake,  was  born  at  Guilford, 
Connecticut,  but  his  active  life  was  spent  in  New  York.  He  first  en 
tered  a  banking  house,  and  later  was  for  many  years  confidential  clerk 
to  John  Jacob  Astor.  On  the  death  of  Mr.  Astor,  he  received  a  pen 
sion  which  enabled  him  to  live  in  dignified  retirement.  Pie  spent  the 
last  eighteen  years  of  his  life  in  his  native  town,  where  he  died. 

Halleck?s  literary  work  began  with  The  Croaker  Pieces,  which  he, 
together  with  Drake,  contributed  to  the  Evening  Post.  These  verses 
contained  witty  and  satirical  thrusts  at  local  celebrities.  He  also  pub 
lished  Fanny,  a  satire  on  New  York  life.  His  best-known  short  poems 
are  Alnwick  Castle,  an  imitation  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  ;  the  spirited  Marco 
Bozzaris,  so  dear  to  the  heart  of  the  schoolboy  declaimer  ;  and  lines  on 
the  death  of  Joseph  Rodman  Drake,  which  have  directness  and  sin 
cerity.  His  later  years  of  ease  and  retirement  seem,  in  a  literary  way, 
to  have  been  almost  entirely  barren.  «  Halleck  long  survived/'  says 
Mr.  Woodberry,  "a  fine  outside  of  a  man,  with  the  ghost  of  a  dead  poet 
stalking  about  in  him,  a  curious  experience  to  those  who  met  him,  with 
his  old-fashioned  courtesy  and  the  wonder  of  his  unliterary  survival." 
It  has  been  suggested  by  the  same  critic  that  "  trade  sterilized  "  him  ;  but 
it  seems  more  than  probable  that  Halleck  said  all  that  he  had  to  say. 

ON   THE   DEATH   OF   JOSEPH    RODMAN    DRAKE 

GREEN  be  the  turf  above  thee, 

Friend  of  my  better  days  ! 
None  knew  thee  but  to  love  thee, 

Nor  named  thee  but  to  praise.  10 


3 2  EARLY   PERIOD 

Tears  fell  when  thou  wert  dying, 

From  eyes  unused  to  weep, 
And  long,  where  thou  art  lying, 

Will  tears  the  cold  turf  steep. 

When  hearts,  whose  truth  was  proven,  5 

Like  thine,  are  laid  in  earth, 
There  should  a  wreath  be  woven 

To  tell  the  world  their  worth ; 

And  I  who  woke  each  morrow 

To  clasp  thy  hand  in  mine,  I0 

Who  shared  thy  joy  and  sorrow, 

Whose  weal  and  woe  were  thine ; 

It  should  be  mine  to  braid  it 

Around  thy  faded  brow, 
But  I've  in  vain  essayed  it,  15 

And  feel  I  cannot  now. 

While  merhory  bids  me  weep  thee, 
Nor  thoughts  nor  words  are  free,  — 

The  grief  is  fixed  too  deeply 

That  mourns  a  man  like  thee.  20 

MARCO    BOZZARIS 

AT  midnight,  in  his  guarded  tent, 

The  Turk  was  dreaming  of  the  hour 
When  Greece,  her  knee  in  suppliance  bent, 

Should  tremble  at  his  power : 

In  dreams,  through  camp  and  court,  he  bore  2S 

The  trophies  of  a  conqueror ; 

In  dreams  his  song  of  triumph  heard  ; 
Then  wore  his  monarch's  signet  ring : 
Then  pressed  that  monarch's  throne  —  a  king; 
As  wild  his  thoughts,  and  gay  of  wing,  30 

As  Eden's  garden  bird. 


HALLECK  33 

At  midnight,  in  the  forest  shades, 

Bozzaris  ranged  his  Suliote  band, 
True  as  the  steel  of  their  tried  blades, 

Heroes  in  heart  and  hand. 

There  had  the  Persian's  thousands  stood,  5 

There  had  the  glad  earth  drunk  their  blood 

On  old  Platsea's  day  ; 
And  now  there  breathed  that  haunted  air 
The  sons  of  sires  who  conquered  there, 
With  arm  to  strike  and  soul  to  dare,  10 

As  quick,  as  far  as  they. 

An  hour  passed  on  —  the  Turk  awoke  ; 

That  bright  dream  was  his  last ; 
He  woke  —  to  hear  his  sentries  shriek, 
"To  arms  !  they  come  !  the  Greek  !  the  Greek  !  "         15 
He  woke  —  to  die  midst  flame,  and  smoke, 
And  shout,  and  groan,  and  saber  stroke, 

And  death  shots  falling  thick  and  fast 
As  lightnings  from  the  mountain  cloud; 
And  heard,  with  voice  as  trumpet  loud,  20 

Bozzaris  cheer  his  band  : 
"  Strike  —  till  the  last  armed  foe  expires ; 
Strike  —  for  your  altars  and  your  fires  ; 
Strike  —  for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires ; 

God  —  and  your  native  land  !  "  25 

They  fought  —  like  brave  men,  long  and  well ; 

They  piled  that  ground  with  Moslem  slain, 
They  conquered  —  but  Bozzaris  fell, 

Bleeding  at  every  vein. 

His  few  surviving  comrades  saw  30 

His  smile  when  rang  their  proud  hurrah, 

And  the  red  field  was  won ; 
Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  close 

LONG'S  AM.  POEMS  —  3 


34  EARLY   PERIOD 

Calmly,  as  to  a  night's  repose, 
Like  flowers  at  set  of  sun. 

Come  to  the  bridal-chamber,  Death  ! 

Come  to  the  mother's,  when  she  feels, 
For  the  first  time,  her  first-born's  breath;  5 

Come  when  the  blessed  seals 
That  close  the  pestilence  are  broke, 
And  crowded  cities  wail  its  stroke ; 
Come  in  consumption's  ghastly  form, 
The  earthquake  shock,  the  ocean  storm ;  10 

Come  when  the  heart  beats  high  and  warm 

With  banquet  song,  and  dance,  and  wine ; 
And  thou  art  terrible  —  the  tear, 
The  groan,  the  knell,  the  pall,  the  bier, 
And  all  we  know,  or  dream,  or  fear  I5 

Of  agony,  are  thine. 

But  to  the  hero,  when  his  sword 

Has  won  the  battle  for  the  free, 
Thy  voice  sounds  like  a  prophet's  word ; 
And  in  its  hollow  tones  are  heard  20 

The  thanks  of  millions  yet  to  be. 
Come,  when  his  task  of  fame  is  wrought  — 
Come,  with  her  laurel  leaf,  blood-bought  — 

Come  in  her  crowning  hour  —  and  then 
Thy  sunken  eye's  unearthly  light  25 

To  him  is  welcome  as  the  sight 

Of  sky  and  stars  to  prisoned  men ; 
Thy  grasp  is  welcome  as  the  hand 
Of  brother  in  a  foreign  land  ; 

Thy  summons  welcome  as  the  cry  3o 

That  told  the  Indian  isles  were  nigh 

To  the  world-seeking  Genoese, 
When  the  land  wind,  from  woods  of  palm, 


HALLECK  35 

And  orange  groves,  and  fields  of  balm, 
Blew  o'er  the  Haytian  seas. 

Bozzaris  !  with  the  storied  brave 

Greece  nurtured  in  her  glory's  time, 
Rest  thee  —  there  is  no  prouder  grave,  5 

Even  in  her  own  proud  clime. 
She  wore  no  funeral  weeds  for  thee, 

Nor  bade  the  dark  hearse  wave  its  plume 
Like  torn  branch  from  death's  leafless  tree 
In  sorrow's  pomp  and  pageantry,  10 

The  heartless  luxury  of  the  tomb  ; 
But  she  remembers  thee  as  one 
Long  loved  and  for  a  season  gone ; 
For  thee  her  poet's  lyre  is  wreathed, 
Her  marble  wrought,  her  music  breathed ;  15 

For  thee  she  rings  the  birthday  bells ; 
Of  thee  her  babe's  first  lisping  tells  ; 
For  thine  her  evening  prayer  is  said 
At  palace  couch  and  cottage  bed ; 

Her  soldier,  closing  with  the  foe,  20 

Gives  for  thy  sake  a  deadlier  blow ; 
His  plighted  maiden,  when  she  fears 
For  him  the  joy  of  her  young  years, 
Thinks  of  thy  fate,  and  checks  her  tears ; 

And  she,  the  mother  of  thy  boys,  25 

Though  in  her  eye  and  faded  cheek 
Is  read  the  grief  she  will  not  speak, 

The  memory  of  her  buried  joys, 
And  even  she  who  gave  thee  birth, 
Will,  by  their  pilgrim-circled  hearth,  30 

Talk  of  thy  doom  without  a  sigh  ; 
For  thou  art  Freedom's  now,  and  Fame's : 
One  of  the  few,  the  immortal  names, 

That  were  not  born  to  die. 


36  EARLY   PERIOD 

JOSEPH    RODMAN    DRAKE 

1795-1820 

DRAKE  was  a  New  Yorker,  born  and  bred.  After  his  first  early 
struggles  with  poverty,  life  seemed  to  open  up  with  shining  prospects. 
He  was  graduated  in  medicine,  and  then  traveled  abroad  for  a  year  or 
two.  He  was  happily  married  and  he  was  rising  in  his  profession.  He 
was,  Halleck  said,  the  handsomest  man  in  New  York.  Buoyant  spirits 
brought  him  many  friends,  and  lie  was  beginning  to  make  a  name  for 
himself  in  letters.  But  he  was  smitten  with  consumption,  and  died  at 
the  age  of  twenty-five. 

Drake  began  to  write  verse  at  a  very  early  age ;  but  it  was  77ie 
Croaker  Pieces,  which  he  and  Halleck  wrote  together,  that  first  brought 
him  into  literary  notice.  They  first  appeared  anonymously  in  the 
Evening  Post,  which  later  on  William  Cullen  Bryant  was  to  edit  so 
long  and  so  brilliantly.  These  witty  verses,  with  their  sly  thrusts  at 
well-known  men  and  women  of  the  day,  soon  became  the  talk  of  the 
town,  and  created  much  curiosity  as  to  their  authorship. 

The  longest  poem  that  Drake  wrote  was  77ic  Culprit  Fay.  It  is  a 
conventional  tale  of  some  tiny  fairies  that  were  supposed  to  haunt  the 
Hudson  River.  Drake's  purpose  in  writing  the  poem  was  to  try  to 
prove  to  his  friends  that  American  streams  lent  themselves  to  poetic 
treatment  as  readily  as  the  streams  of  the  Old  World.  It  was  reserved 
for  Irving,  however,  at  a  later  day,  to  show  more  conclusively  in  his 
Sketch  Book  than  Drake  did  in  77/6'  Culprit  Fay  that  the  spirit  of 
romance  really  does  hover  about,  the  Hudson.  But  Drake's  poem 
contains  some  pleasing  fancies,  more  or  less  gracefully  told. 

To-day  the  best-remembered  poem  of  Drake's  is  The  American  Flag. 
This  may  be  pitched  in  too  high  a  key  to  please  the  most  rigid  taste, 
but  its  patriotic  appeal  will  probably  be  lasting. 

THE    AMERICAN    FLAG 

WHEN  Freedom  from  her  mountain  height 

Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 
She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night, 

And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there. 


DRAKE  37 

She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 

The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies, 

And  striped  its  pure  celestial  white 

With  streakings  of  the  morning  light ; 

Then  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun  5 

She  called  her  eagle  bearer  down, 

And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 

The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land. 

Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud, 

Who  rear'st  aloft  thy  regal  form,  10 

To  hear  the  tempest  trumpings  loud 
And  see  the  lightning  lances  driven, 

When  strive  the  warriors  of  the  storm, 
And  rolls  the  thunder  drum  of  heaven, 
Child  of  the  sun  !  to  thee  'tis  given  15 

To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free, 
To  hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke, 
To  ward  away  the  battle  stroke, 
And  bid  its  blendings  shine  afar, 
Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war,  20 

The  harbingers  of  victory  ! 

Flag  of  the  brave  !  thy  folds  shall  fly, 

The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high, 

When  speaks  the  signal  trumpet  tone, 

And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming  on.  25 

Ere  yet  the  life  blood,  warm  and  wet, 

Has  dimmed  the  glistening  bayonet, 

Each  soldier  eye  shall  brightly  turn 

To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn, 

And,  as  his  springing  steps  advance,  30 

Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance. 

And  when  the  cannon  mouthings  loud 

Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the  battle  shroud, 


38  EARLY   PERIOD 

And  gory  sabers  rise  and  fall 

Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall, 

Then  shall  thy  meteor  glances  glow, 
And  cowering  foes  shall  shrink  beneath 

Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below  5 

That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 

Flag  of  the  seas  !  on  ocean  wave 

Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave ; 

When  death,  careering  on  the  gale, 

Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail,  10 

And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back 

Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack, 

Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 

Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee, 

And  smile  to  see  thy  splendors  fly  15 

In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 

Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home  ! 

By  angel  hands  to  valor  given ; 
Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven.  20 

Forever  float  that  standard  sheet ! 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  before  us, 
With  Freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet, 

And  Freedom's  banner  streaming  o'er  us? 

EDWARD    COATE    PINKNEY 

1802-1828 

PINKNEY  was  born  in  London  while  his  father,  William  Pinkncy  of 
Baltimore,  a  lawyer  and  public  speaker  of  distinction,  was  United  States 
minister  to  Great  Britain.  On  his  return  to  America,  he  was  put  to 
school  in  Baltimore,  but  later  entered  the  navy  as  a  midshipman,  lie 
resigned  from  the  navy  to  enter  upon  the  practice  of  the  law,  but  his 


PINKNEY  39 

health  failed  and  he  died  in  Baltimore  at  the  age  of  twenty-six.  Dur 
ing  his  lifetime  he  published  a  tiny  volume  of  verses  which  are  notable 
for  their  ease  and  grace.  Those  given  in  this  collection  do  not  suffer 
greatly  by  comparison  with  similar  verses  by  the  English  Cavalier  poets. 
They  were  highly  praised  by  Foe. 

A    HEALTH 

I  FILL  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon ; 
To  whom  the  better  elements  5 

And  kindly  stars  have  given 
A  form  so  fair,  that,  like  the  air, 

'Tis  less  of  earth  than  heaven. 

Her  every  tone  is  music's  own, 

Like  those  of  morning  birds,  10 

And  something  more  than  melody 

Dwells  ever  in  her  words ; 
The  coinage  of  her  heart  are  they, 

And  from  her  lips  each  flows 
As  one  may  see  the  burdened  bee  15 

Forth  issue  from  the  rose. 

Affections  are  as  thoughts  to  her, 

The  measures  of  her  hours  ; 
Her  feelings  have  the  fragrancy, 

The  freshness  of  young  flowers ; 
And  lovely  passions,  changing  oft,  20 

So  fill  her,  she  appears 
The  image  of  themselves  by  turns, — 

The  idol  of  past  years  ! 

Of  her  bright  face  one  glance  will  trace 

A  picture  on  the  brain,  25 


40  EARLY   PERIOD 

And  of  her  voice  in  echoing  hearts 
A  sound  must  long  remain ; 

But  memory,  such  as  mine  of  her, 
So  very  much  endears, 

When  death  is  nigh  my  latest  sigh 
Will  not  be  life's,  but  hers. 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon  — 
Her  health  !  and  would  on  earth  there  stood 

Some  more  of  such  a  frame, 
That  life  might  be  all  poetry, 

And  weariness  a  name. 


A   SERENADE 

LOOK  out  upon  the  stars,  my  love,  ,5 

And  shame  them  with  thine  eyes, 
On  which,  than  on  the  lights  above, 

There  hang  more  destinies. 
Night's  beauty  is  the  harmony 

Of  blending  shades  and  light ;  20 

Then,  lady,  up,  — look  out,  and  be 

A  sister  to  the  night ! 

Sleep  not !  thine  image  wakes  for  aye 

Within  my  watching  breast  : 
Sleep  not  !  from  her  soft  sleep  should  fly  25 

Who  robs  all  hearts  of  rest. 
Nay,  lady,  from  thy  slumbers  break, 

And  make  this  darkness  gay 
With  looks,  whose  brightness  well  might  make 

Of  darker  nights  a  day.  3o 


MORRIS  41 

GEORGE    POPE    MORRIS 

1802-1864 

MORRIS  lived  a  long  and  busy  life,  writing  much  in  both  prose  and 
verse,  but  his  name  is  kept  alive  by  a  single  poem.  Woodman, 
spare  that  Tree  may  seem  a  slender  thread  on  which  to  hang  a  literary 
reputation,  but  the  appeal  which  it  makes,  though  not  very  strong, 
is  sincere  and  universal.  The  cutting  down  of  a  tree,  however  insig 
nificant,  invariably  awakens  lively  interest  and  often  provokes  heated 
discussion. 

Morris  was  born  in  Philadelphia,  but  spent  the  greater  part  of  his 
life  in  New  York  city,  where  he  died.  His  life  work  was  journalism. 
For  nearly  twenty  years  he  edited  the  Mirror,  which  he  and  Samuel 
Woodworth,  author  of  77/6'  Old  Oaken  Bucket,  had  founded  together 
in  1823.  He  and  N.  P.  Willis  also  founded  the  Home  Journal. 
These  two  journals  published  much  of  the  current  literature  of  the  day, 
and  the  editors  were  no  inconsiderable  literary  figures  in  their  time. 

WOODMAN,    SPARE   THAT   TREE:  ! 

WOODMAN,  spare  that  tree  ! 

Touch  not  a  single  bough  ! 
In  youth  it  sheltered  me, 

And  I'll  protect  it  now. 
'Twas  my  forefather's  hand  5 

That  placed  it  near* his  cot ; 
There,  woodman,  let  it  stand, 

Thy  ax  shall  harm  it  not. 

That  old  familiar  tree, 

Whose  glory  and  renown  10 

Are  spread  o'er  land  and  sea  — 

And  wouldst  thou  hew  it  down  ? 
Woodman,  forbear  thy  stroke  ! 

Cut  not  its  earth-bound  ties  ; 
Oh,  spare  that  aged  oak  15 

Now  towering  to  the  skies  ! 


42  EARLY    PERIOD 

When  but  an  idle  boy, 

I  sought  its  grateful  shade ; 
In  all  their  gushing  joy 

Here,  too,  my  sisters  played. 
My  mother  kissed  me  here  ;  5 

My  father  pressed  my  hand  — 
Forgive  this  foolish  tear, 

But  let  that  old  oak  stand. 

My  heartstrings  round  thee  cling, 

Close  as  thy  bark,  old  friend  !  10 

Here  shall  the  wild  bird  sing, 

And  still  thy  branches  bend. 
Old  tree  !  the  storm  still  brave  ! 

And,  woodman,  leave  the  spot; 
While  I've  a  hand  to  save,  15 

Thy  ax  shall  harm  it  not. 


ALBERT  GORTON  GREENE 

1802-1868 

JUDGE  GREENE  was  born  at  Providence,  Rhode  Island,  and  was 
graduated  from  Brown  University.  While  in  college  he  wrote  a  popu 
lar  ballad,  Old  Grimes.  He  studied  law  and  was  for  many  years  judge 
of  the  Municipal  Court  at  Providence.  His  interests,  however,  were 
not  wholly  centered  in  the  law.  He  drew  up  the  school  bill  of  Rhode 
Island,  and  for  fourteen  years  was  president  of  the  Rhode  Island  His 
torical  Society.  He  was  also  the  founder  of  the  Harris  Collection  of 
American  Poetry  now  in  the  possession  of  Brown  University.  His 
own  poems  were  never  published  in  a  collected  form. 

THE   BARON'S   LAST   BANQUET 

O'ER  a  low  couch  the  setting  sun  had  thrown  its  latest  ray, 
Where  in  his  last  strong  agony  a  dying  warrior  lay, 


GREENE  43 

The  stern  old  Baron  Rudiger,  whose  frame  had  ne'er  been  bent 
By  wasting  pain,  till  time  and  toil  its  iron  strength  had  spent. 

"  They  come  around  me  here,  and  say  my  days  of  life  are  o'er, 
That  I  shall  mount  my  noble  steed  and  lead  my  band  no  more  ; 
They  come,  and  to  my  beard  they  dare  to  tell  me  now,  that  I,      5 
Their  own  liege  lord  and  master  born,  —  that  I,  ha  !  ha  !  must  die. 

"And  what  is  death?     I've   dared  him  oft   before   the  Paynim 

spear,  — 

Think  ye  he's  entered  at  my  gate,  has  come  to  seek  me  here  ? 
I've  met  him,  faced  him,  scorned  him,  when  the  fight  was  raging 

hot, — 
I'll  try  his  might  —  I'll  brave  his  power ;  defy,  and  fear  him  not.  10 

"Ho  !  sound  the  tocsin  from  my  tower,  and  fire  the  culverin,— 
Bid  each  retainer  arm  with  speed,  —  call  every  vassal  in, 
Up  with  my  banner  on  the  wall,  —  the  banquet  board  prepare  ; 
Throw  wide  the  portal  of  my  hall,  and  bring  my  armor  there  ! " 

An  hundred  hands  were  busy  then — the  banquet  forth  was  spread  — 
And  rung  the  heavy  oaken  floor  with  many  a  martial  tread,          16 
While  from  the  rich,  dark  tracery  along  the  vaulted  wall, 
Lights  gleamed  on  harness,  plume,  and  spear,  o'er  the  proud  old 
Gothic  hall. 

Fast  hurrying  through  the  outer  gate  the  mailed  retainers  poured, 
On  through  the  portal's  frowning  arch,  and  thronged  around  the 
board.  20 

While  at  its  head,  within  his  dark,  carved  oaken  chair  of  state, 
Armed  cap-a-pie,  stern  Rudiger,  with  girded  falchion,  sate. 

"  Fill  every  beaker  up,  my  men,  pour  forth  the  cheering  wine  ; 
There's  life  and  strength  in  every  drop,  —  thanksgiving  to  the  vine  ! 
Are  ye  all  there,  my  vassals  true? — mine  eyes  are  waxing  dim ;  25 
Fill  round,  my  tried  and  fearless  ones,  each  goblet  to  the  brim. 


44  EARLY   PERIOD 

"  You're  there,  but  yet  I  see  ye  not.     Draw  forth  each  trusty  sword 
And  let  me  hear  your  faithful  steel  clash  once  around  my  board  ; 
I  hear  it  faintly  :  —  Louder  yet  !  —  What  clogs  my  heavy  breath? 
Up  all,  and  shout  for  Rudiger,  '  Defiance  unto  Death  ! '  " 

Bowl  rang  to  bowl  —  steel  clanged  to  steel  —  and  rose  a  deafening 
cry  5 

That  made  the  torches  flare  around,  and  shook  the  flags  on  high  :  — 
"  Ho  !  cravens,  do  ye  fear  him?  —  Slaves,  traitors  !  have  ye  flown? 
Ho  !  cowards,  have  ye  left  me  to  meet  him  here  alone  ! 

"  But  I  defy  him  :  —  let  him  come  !  "  Down  rang  the  massy  cup, 
While  from  its  sheath  the  ready  blade  came  flashing  halfway  up  ;  10 
And  with  the  black  and  heavy  plumes  scarce  trembling  on  his  head, 
There  in  his  dark,  carved  oaken  chair  Old  Rudiger  sat,  —  dead. 


NATHANIEL    PARKER   WILLIS 

1806-1867 

BORN  in  Portland,  Maine,  educated  at  Andover  and  Yale,  Willis 
began  his  literary  career  in  Boston,  where  his  father  had  founded  the 
Youttfs  Companion.  Later  he  removed  to  New  York,  where  he  spent 
the  remainder  of  his  life,  and  became  the  most  prominent  man  of  letters 
of  his  day  in  America. 

His  literary  reputation  has  slowly  faded  since  his  death.  Much  of 
his  work  — stories,  verses,  and  letters  of  travel  — lies  buried  in  the 
files  of  the  Mirror  and  the  Home  Journal.  It  was  distinguished  by 
cleverness  rather  than  by  power  or  depth.  But  no  man  ever  under 
stood  the  taste  of  his  own  age  better  than  did  Willis.  He  fed  this 
taste  with  sentimental  stories,  cleverly  turned  verses,  and  letters  of 
travel  full  of  personal  gossip.  His  personal  qualities,  apart  from  his 
literary  style,  also  served  to  increase  his  power  over  the  men  and  women 
of  his  time.  He  was  tall,  handsome,  elegant  in  dress,  joyous  in  spirit, 
and  both  amiable  in  manner  and  honorable  in  conduct.  He  had,  too, 
that  deferential  attitude  towards  women  which  has  always  been  popu- 


WILLIS  45 

lar  in  America.  These  qualities  made  him  a  social  favorite,  in  Europe 
as  well  as  in  America.  So  dazzling,  indeed,  were  his  personal  charms 
that  one  Englishman  spoke  of  him  as  a  young  man  likely  to  attain  the 
presidency,  and  a  Boston  merchant  said  he  guessed  that  Goethe  was 
the  N.  P.  Willis  of  Germany. 

Much  of  Willis's  contemporary  fame  must,  therefore,  be  set  down  to 
the  magic  of  his  personality.  Readers  of  to-day,  untouched  by  this 
subtle  wand,  easily  detect  in  his  literary  work  much  that  is  false  in 
taste,  shallow  in  feeling,  and  superficial  in  thought.  A  few  of  his  best 
poems,  however,  seem  likely  to  survive,  and  his  heroic  struggle  in  the 
waning  days  of  his  strength  to  support  his  family  in  comfort  will  always 
appeal  to  men  of  spirit  and  honor. 


UNSEEN    SPIRITS 

THE  shadows  lay  along  Broadway, 

Twas  near  the  twilight  tide, 
And  slowly  there  a  lady  fair 

Was  walking  in  her  pride. 
Along  walked  she  ;  but,  viewlessly,  5 

Walked  spirits  at  her  side. 

Peace  charmed  the  street  beneath  her  feet 

And  Honor  charmed  the  air ; 
And  all  astir  looked  kind  on  her, 

And  called  her  good  as  fair,  10 

For  all  God  ever  gave  to  her 

She  kept  with  chary  care. 

She  kept  with  care  her  beauties  rare 

From  lovers  warm  and  true, 
For  her  heart  was  cold  to  all  but  gold,  15 

And  the  rich  came  not  to  woo  — 
But  honored  well  are  charms  to  sell 

If  priests  the  selling  do. 


46  EARLY    PERIOD 

Now  walking  there  was  one  more  fair  — 

A  slight  girl,  lily  pale ; 
And  she  had  unseen  company 

To  make  the  spirit  quail : 
Tvvixt  Want  and  Scorn  she  walked  forlorn,  s 

And  nothing  could  avail. 

No  mercy  now  can  clear  her  brow 

For  this  world's  peace  to  pray ; 
For,  as  love's  wild  prayer  dissolved  in  air, 

Her  woman's  heart  gave  way  !—  10 

But  the  sin  forgiven  by  Christ  in  heaven 

By  man  is  cursed  alway  ! 

SPRING 

THE  Spring  is  here  —  the  delicate-footed  May, 

With  its  slight  fingers  full  of  leaves  and  flowers, 

And  with  it  comes  a  thirst  to  be  away,  15 

In  lovelier  scenes  to  pass  these  sweeter  hours, 

A  feeling  like  the  worm's  awakening  wings, 

Wild  for  companionship  with  swifter  things. 

We  pass  out  from  the  city's  feverish  hum, 

To  find  refreshment  in  the  silent  woods ;  20 

And  nature  that  is  beautiful  and  dumb, 

Like  a  cool  sleep  upon  the  pulses  broods  — 

Yet,  even  there  a  restless  thought  will  steal, 

To  teach  the  indolent  heart  it  still  must  feel. 

Strange  that  the  audible  stillness  of  the  noon,  2$ 

The  waters  tripping  with  their  silver  feet, 

The  turning  to  the  light  of  leaves  in  June, 

And  the  light  whisper  as  their  edges  meet  — 

Strange  —  that  they  fill  not,  with  their  tranquil  tone, 

The  spirit,  walking  in  their  midst  alone.  30 


HOFFMAN  47 

There's  no  contentment  in  a  world  like  this, 
Save  in  forgetting  the  immortal  dream  ; 
We  may  not  gaze  upon  the  stars  of  bliss, 
That  through  the  cloud  rifts  radiantly  stream ; 
Birdlike,  the  prison'd  soul  will  lift  its  eye  5 

And  pine  till  it  is  hooded  from  the  sky. 

CHARLES    FENNO    HOFFMAN 

1806-1884 

HOFFMAN  was  born  in  New  York  city,  studied  at  Columbia  College, 
and  practiced  law  in  his  native  city.  His  tastes,  however,  were  more 
literary  than  legal.  He  was  the  first  editor  of  the  Knickerbocker  Maga 
zine,  founded  in  1833,  which  was  for  thirty  years  the  most  conspicuous 
periodical  of  its  kind  in  the  country.  It  was  the  forerunner  of  Harpers 
and  the  Century.  Among  its  contributors  were  Irving,  Bryant,  Halleck, 
Willis,  Boker,  Bayard  Taylor,  and  George  William  Curtis.  This  group 
of  writers  formed  what  is  often  spoken  of  as  the  Knickerbocker  School. 

The  chief  literary  work  of  Hoffman  consists  of  novels  and  books  of 
travel,  all  now  forgotten.  His  verse  is  also  fading,  but  it  had  a  lyrical 
quality  above  that  of  the  verse  of  most  of  his  contemporaries. 

In  1849  Hoffman's  mind  was  sadly  darkened  by  an  insanity  which 
kept  him  in  seclusion  the  last  thirty-five  years  of  his  life. 

MONTEREY 

WE  were  not  many  —  we  who  stood 
Before  the  iron  sleet  that  day  — 
Yet  many  a  gallant  spirit  would 

Give  half  his  years  if  he  then  could  10 

%  Have  been  with  us  at  Monterey. 

Now  here,  now  there,  the  shot,  it  hailed 

In  deadly  drifts  of  fiery  spray, 
Yet  not  a  single  soldier  quailed 
When  wounded  comrades  round  them  wailed  15 

Their  dying  shout  at  Monterey. 


48  EARLY    PERIOD 

And  on  —  still  on  our  column  kept 

Through  walls  of  flame  its  withering  way ; 
Where  fell  the  dead,  the  living  stept, 
Still  charging  on  the  guns  which  swept 

The  slippery  streets  of  Monterey.  5 

The  foe  himself  recoiled  aghast, 

When,  striking  where  he  strongest  lay, 
We  swooped  his  flanking  batteries  past, 
And  braving  full  their  murderous  blast, 

Stormed  home  the  towers  of  Monterey.  10 

Our  banners  on  those  turrets  wave, 

And  there  our  evening  buyles  play ; 
Where  orange  boughs  above  their  grave 
Keep  green  the  memory  of  the  brave 

Who  fought  and  fell  at  Monterey.  15 

We  are  not  many — we  who  pressed 

Beside  the  brave  who  fell  that  day; 
But  who  of  us  has  not  confessed 
He'd  rather  share  their  warrior  rest, 

Than  not  have  been  at  Monterey?  20 


SAMUEL    FRANCIS    SMITH 

1808-1895 

THE  author  of  the  national  hymn  of  America  was  born  in  Boston. 
He  was  graduated  in  1829  from  Harvard,  where  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 
was  his  classmate.  Three  years  after  graduation  he  wrote  this  famous 
hymn.  He  was  a  Baptist  clergyman,  and  wrote  other  hymns,  as  well 
as  books  for  boys  ;  but  his  name  would  soon  be  forgotten  were  it  not 
for  My  Country,  ''tis  of  Thee. 


SMITH  49 

AMERICA 

MY  country,  'tis  of  thee, 
Sweet  land  of  liberty, 

Of  thee  I  sing  ; 
Land  where  my  fathers  died, 
Land  of  the  pilgrims'  pride,  5 

From  every  mountain  side 

Let  freedom  ring. 

My  native  country,  thee, 
Land  of  the  noble  free,  — • 

Thy  name  I  love  ;  10 

I  love  thy  rocks  and  rills, 
Thy  woods  and  templed  hills ; 
My  heart  with  rapture  thrills 

Like  that  above. 

Let  music  swell  the  breeze,  15 

And  ring  from  all  the  trees, 

Sweet  freedom's  song  ! 
Let  mortal  tongues  awake, 
Let  all  that  breathe  partake, 
Let  rocks  their  silence  break,  —  20 

The  sound  prolong. 

Our  fathers'  God,  to  Thee, 
Author  of  liberty, 

To  Thee  I  sing ; 

Long  may  our  land  be  bright  25 

With  freedom's  holy  light ; 
Protect  us  by  thy  might, 

Great  God  our  King. 


LONG'S  AM.  POEMS  —  4 


50  EARLY   PERIOD 

PARK   BENJAMIN 

1809-1864 

THIS  journalist,  lecturer,  and  poet  was  born  at  Demerara,  British 
Guiana,  and  died  at  New  York,  where  he  spent  the  greater  part  of  his 
life.  His  sister  was  married  to  John  Lothrop  Motley,  the  author  of 
The  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic,  Benjamin  edited  more  than  one 
magazine  in  New  York,  and  also  worked  on  the  Tribune  under  Horace 
Greeley.  His  poems  were  never  collected.  Perhaps  the  best  known 
is  the  one  given  below. 

THE   OLD    SEXTON 

NIGH  to  a  grave  that  was  newly  made, 

Leaned  a  sexton  old  on  his  earth-worn  spade ; 

His  work  was  done,  and  he  paused  to  wait 

The  funeral  train  at  the  open  gate. 

A  relic  of  bygone  days  was  he,  5 

And  his  locks  were  white  as  the  foamy  sea ; 

And  these  words  came  from  his  lips  so  thin  : 

"  I  gather  them  in,  I  gather  them  in. 

"  I  gather  them  in  !  for  man  and  boy, 

Year  after  year  of  grief  and  joy,  10 

I've  build ed  the  houses  that  lie  around, 

In  every  nook  of  this  burial  ground ; 

Mother  and  daughter,  father  and  son, 

Come  to  my  solitude,  one  by  one  : 

But  come  they  strangers  or  come  they  kin —  15 

I  gather  them  in,  I  gather  them  in. 

"  Many  are  with  me,  but  still  I'm  alone, 

I'm  king  of  the  dead  —  and  I  make  my  throne 

On  a  monument  slab  of  marble  cold ; 

And  my  scepter  of  rule  is  the  spade  I  hold  :  20 


COOKE  53 

I  renew  in  my  fond  vision 

My  heart's  dear  pain, 
My  hope,  and  thy  derision, 

Florence  Vane. 

The  ruin  lone  and  hoary,  5 

The  ruin  old, 
Where  thou  didst  mark  my  story, 

At  even  told,  — 
That  spot  —  the  hues  Elysian 

Of  sky  and  plain  —  10 

I  treasure  in  my  vision, 

Florence  Vane. 

Thou  wast  lovelier  than  the  roses 

In  their  prime  ; 
Thy  voice  excelled  the  closes  15 

Of  sweetest  rhyme ; 
Thy  heart  was  as  a  river 

Without  a  main. 
Would  I  had  loved  thee  never, 

Florence  Vane  !  20 

But,  fairest,  coldest  wonder  ! 

Thy  glorious  clay 
Lieth  the  green  sod  under,  — 

Alas  the  day  ! 
And  it  boots  not  to  remember  25 

Thy  disdain, — 
To  quicken  love's  pale  ember, 

Florence  Vane. 

The  lilies  of  the  valley 

By  young  graves  weep,  30 

The  pansies  love  to  dally 

Where  maidens  sleep  ; 


54  EARLY   PERIOD 

May  their  bloom,  in  beauty  vying, 

Never  wane 
Where  thine  earthly  part  is  lying, 

Florence  Vane  ! 


THOMAS    DUNN    ENGLISH 

1819-1902 

THE  life  of  Dr.  English  was  unusually  active  and  varied.  He  practiced 
both  law  and  medicine  at  different  times  ;  for  a  number  of  years  he  was 
active  in  journalism  in  New  York,  when  he  was  associated  with  Willis 
and  Foe;  he  wrote  a  novel,  made  a  collection  of  ballads  and  fairy 
stories,  and  from  1891  to  1895  served  as  a  member  of  Congress,  during 
which  time  he  published  a  volume  of  poems. 

Dr.  English  was  born  in  Philadelphia,  and  was  a  graduate  of  the 
medical  school  of  the  University  of  Pennsylvania.  His  last  years  were 
spent  in  blindness  at  Newark,  New  Jersey,  where  he  died.  Through 
out  his  long  career  he  was  a  man  of  vigor  and  of  striking  personality. 

% 

BEN    BOLT 

DON'T  you  remember  sweet  Alice,  Ben  Bolt,  —  5 

Sweet  Alice  whose  hair  was  so  brown, 
Who  wept  with  delight  when  you  gave  her  a  smile, 

And  trembled  with  fear  at  your  frown? 
In  the  old  church  yard  in  the  valley,  Ben  Bolt, 

In  a  corner  obscure  and  alone,  10 

They  have  fitted  a  slab  of  the  granite  so  gray, 

And  Alice  lies  under  the  stone. 

Under  the  hickory  tree,  Ben  Bolt, 

Which  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  hill, 
Together  we've  lain  in  the  noonday  shade,  15 

And  listened  to  Appleton's  mill. 


ENGLISH  55 

The  mill  wheel  has  fallen  to  pieces,  Ben  Bolt, 

The  rafters  have  tumbled  in, 
And  a  quiet  which  crawls  round  the  walls  as  you  gaze 

Has  followed  the  olden  din. 

Do  you  mind  of  the  cabin  of  logs,  Ben  Bolt,  5 

At  the  edge  of  the  pathless  wood, 
And  the  button-ball  tree  with  its  motley  limbs, 

Which  nigh  by  the  doorstep  stood? 
The  cabin  to  ruin  has  gone,  Ben  Bolt, 

The  tree  you  would  seek  for  in  vain ;  10 

And  where  once  the  lords  of  the  forest  waved 

Are  grass  and  the  golden  grain. 

And  don't  you  remember  the  school,  Ben  Bolt, 

With  the  master  so  cruel  and  grim, 
And  the  shaded  nook  in  the  running  brook  15 

Where  the  children  went  to  swim? 
Grass  grows  on  the  master's  grave,  Ben  Bolt, 

The  spring  of  the  brook  is  dry, 
And  of  all  the  boys  who  were  schoolmates  then 

There  are  only  you  and  I.  20 

There  is  change  in  the  things  I  loved,  Ben  Bolt, 

They  have  changed  from  the  old  to  the  new ; 
But  I  feel  in  the  deeps  of  my  spirit  the  truth, 

There  never  was  change  in  you. 
Twelvemonths  twenty  have  past,  Ben  Bolt,  25 

Since  first  we  were  friends  —  yet  I  hail 
Your  presence  a  blessing,  your  friendship  a  truth, 

Ben  Bolt  of  the  salt-sea  gale. 


MIDDLE    PERIOD 

I 

Bryant,  Emerson,  Longfellow,  Whittier,  Poe,  Holmes,  and 

Lowell 

WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT 

1794-1878 

THE  life  of  Bryant  falls  into  two  rather  distinct  parts  — his  work  as 
a  poet,  and  his  career  as  a  journalist  and  citizen.  Much  of  his  best 
poetry  was  written  while  he  was  a  resident  of  Massachusetts,  where  he 
practiced  law  with  doubtful  success,  but  during  the  last  fifty  years  of  his 
life  he  edited  the  New  York  Evening  Post,  through  which  he  rendered 
distinguished  service  to  both  literature  and  politics.  In  his  later  years 
the  venerable  poet  and  publicist  was  often  spoken  of  as  the  first  citizen 
'  of  the  Republic. 

The  outward  facts  of  Bryant's  life  may  be  set  down  briefly.  He  was 
born  at  Cummington,  in  the  western  part  of  Massachusetts.  His  father 
was  a  physician,  who  named  his  son  for  the  once  famous  Scotch  pro 
fessor  of  medicine,  William  Cullen.  On  his  mother's  side  the  poet  was 
descended  from  John  and  Priscilla  Alden.  Young  Bryant  was  pre 
cocious.  His  first  poem  was  published  in  a  newspaper  when  he  was 
thirteen  years  of  age.  A  year  later  he  published  The  Embargo,  a  satire 
on  President  Jefferson,  which  caused  much  comment  in  Boston,  where 
it  first  appeared.  The  sentiment  of  this  poem  appealed  to  the  preju 
dices  of  the  violent  Federalists  of  that  time,  but  the  most  notable  thing 
about  it  was  its  unusual  correctness  of  rhyme  and  meter.  Indeed,  care 
ful  workmanship  always  marked  Bryant's  prose  and  verse.  In  1810  he 
entered  Williams  College  as  a  sophomore.  At  the  end  of  one  year  he 
left  with  an  honorable  dismissal,  intending  to  enter  Yale.  Lack  of 
money,  however,  put  a  stop  to  his  college  career.  About  this  time, 

56 


BRYANT  57 

when  only  seventeen  years  of  age,  he  wrote  Thanatopsis,  his  best- 
known  poem,  and  during  his  long  career  he  never  produced  anything 
better.  When  it  was  published  in  the  North  American  Review,  it  won 
him  instant  recognition  as  a  poet.  A  few  months  later  his  justly  popu 
lar  lines  To  a  Waterfowl  appeared  in  the  same  magazine.  In  1821  he 
read  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society  of  Harvard  a  poem  called 
The  Ages.  It  was  in  this  year  that  he  was  happily  married  to  Miss 
Frances  Fairchild  at  Great  Barrington,  Massachusetts.  He  now  de 
termined  to  give  up  the  law  and  to  devote  his  life  to  letters.  In  1825 
he  was  persuaded  by  friends  to  move  to  New  York,  where  for  a  time  he 
'helped  to  edit  an  unsuccessful  magazine.  Then  came  his  connection 
with  the  Evening  Post,  which  marked  a  sharp  turn  in  his  life. 

The  second  important  period  of  Bryant's  life  had  now  begun.  In 
his  hands  the  Evening  Post  became  a  pattern  of  the  purest  and  most 
virile  English,  a  literary  critic  of  power  and  discrimination,  and  a  fear 
less,  independent,  and  high-minded  upholder  of  all  that  is  best  in  the 
civic  affairs  of  the  Republic.  Bryant  wrote  poetry  during  these  fifty 
years  of  toil  as  an  editor,  but  it  confirmed  rather  than  increased  his 
reputation  as  a  poet.  Either  his  springs  had  run  dry  or  his  energies 
had  been  diverted  into  another  channel.  As  the  years  went  by  lie  was 
thought  of  less  as  a  poet  and  more  as  a  commanding  personality  in 
public  affairs.  To  those  who  saw  him  in  his  daily  round  he  seemed  a 
dignified,  venerable,  and  almost  majestic  figure.  Secure  in  fame  and 
fortune,  steadfastly  devoted  to  the  greatest  good  to  the  greatest  number, 
patiently  and  modestly  laborious,  gravely  gentle  in  all  the  relations  of 
life,  he  walked  among  men  as  the  noblest  embodiment  of  democratic 
citizenship.  His  last  public  act  was  in  keeping  with  his  character  and 
career.  He  delivered  the  oration  in  1878  at  the  unveiling  of  a  statue  in 
Central  Park  to  Mazzini,  the  Italian  patriot,  and  suffered  a  sunstroke 
which  proved  fatal. 

"  Happily,"  says  George  William  Curtis,  "  we  may  believe  that  he  was 
sensible  of  no  decay.  ...  He  was  hale,  erect,  and  strong  to  the  last. 
All  his  life  a  lover  of  nature  and  an  advocate  of  liberty,  he  stood  under 
the  trees  in  the  beautiful  park  on  a  bright  June  day,  and  paid  an  elo 
quent  tribute  to  a  devoted  servant  of  liberty  in  another  land.  And 
while  his  words  yet  lingered  in  the  ears  of  those  who  heard  him,  he 
passed  from  human  sight." 

As  a  poet,  Bryant  holds  a  place  in  American  letters  which  is  high 
and  secure.  He  has  correctness  of  form,  restraint,  delicacy,  simplicity, 


58  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

luminousness,  and  he  rises  at  times  almost  to  majesty.  What  he  lacked 
was  the  heat  which  kindles  the  emotions  and  fires  the  imagination. 
The  reason  for  this  lay  in  the  man  himself.  "  He  was  reserved,  and 
in  no  sense  magnetic  or  responsive,11  says  one  who  knew  him  well. 
"  There  was  something  in  his  manner  of  the  New  England  hills  among 
which  he  was  born,  — a  little  stern  and  bleak  and  dry,  although  suf 
fused  with  the  tender  and  scentless  splendor  of  the  white  laurel." 

THANATOPSIS 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds 

Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 

A  various  language  ;  for  his  gayer  hours 

She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 

And  eloquence  of  beauty,  and  she  glides  5 

Into  his  darker  musings,  with  a  mild 

And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 

Their  sharpness,  ere  he  is  aware.     When  thoughts 

Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 

Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images  J0 

Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 

And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 

Make  thee  to  shudder  and  grow  sick  at  heart ;  — 

Go  forth,  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 

To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around  —  15 

Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air  — 

Comes  a  still  voice  :  — 

Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In  all  his  course ;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 
Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid  with  many  tears,  20 

Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 
Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 
Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again, 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 


BRYANT  59 

Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 

To  mix  forever  with  the  elements, 

To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock 

And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 

Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The  oak  5 

Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mould. 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting  place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone,  nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world  —  with  kings,  10 

The  powerful  of  the  earth  —  the  wise,  the  good, 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulcher.     The  hills 
Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun,  —  the  vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between  ;  15 

The  venerable  woods  —  rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green ;  and,  poured  round  all, 
Old  Ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste,  — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all  20 

Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.     The  golden  sun, 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that  tread 
The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes  25 

That  slumber  in  its  bosom.  —  Take  the  wings 
Of  morning,  pierce  the  Barcan  wilderness, 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound, 
Save  his  own  dashings  —  yet  the  dead  are  there;  30 

And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep  —  the  dead  reign  there  alone. 
So  shalt  thou  rest,  and  what  if  thou  withdraw 


60  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 

Take  note  of  thy  departure?     All  that  breathe 

Will  share  thy  destiny.     The  gay  will  tough 

When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 

Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will  chase  5 

His  favorite  phantom  ;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 

Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come 

And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As  the  long  train 

Of  ages  glides  away,  the  sons  of  men  — 

The  youth  in  life's  fresh  spring,  and  he  who  goes  10 

In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron  and  maid, 

The  speechless  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man  — 

Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy  side, 

By  those,  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join  15 

The  innumerable  caravan,  which  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and  soothed     20 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 

THE    FLOOD    OF    YEARS 

A  MIGHTY  Hand,  from  an  exhaustless  Urn, 

Pours  forth  the  never-ending  Flood  of  Years,  25 

Among  the  nations.     How  the  rushing  waves 

Bear  all  before  them  !     On  their  foremost  edge, 

And  there  alone,  is  Life.     The  Present  there 

Tosses  and  foams,  and  fills  the  air  with  roar 

Of  mingled  noises.     There  are  they  who  toil,  30 

And  they  who  strive,  and  they  who  feast,  and  they 


BRYANT  6 I 

Who  hurry  to  and  fro.     The  sturdy  swain  — 

Woodman  and  delver  with  the  spade  —  is  there, 

And  busy  artisan  beside  his  bench, 

And  pallid  student  with  his  written  roll. 

A  moment  on  the  mounting  billow  seen,  5 

The  floods  sweep  over  them  and  they  are  gone. 

There  groups  of  revelers  whose  brows  are  twined 

With  roses,  ride  the  topmost  swell  awhile, 

And  as  they  raise  their  flowing  cups  and  touch 

The  clinking  brim  to  brim,  are  whirled  beneath  10 

The  waves  and  disappear.     I  hear  the  jar 

Of  beaten  drums,  and  thunders  that  break  forth 

From  cannon,  where  the  advancing  billow  sends 

Up  to  the  sight  long  files  of  armed  men, 

That  hurry  to  the  charge  through  flame  and  smoke.  15 

The  torrent  bears  them  under,  whelmed  and  hid, 

Slayer  and  slain,  in  heaps  of  bloody  foam. 

Down  go  the  steed  and  rider,  the  plumed  chief 

Sinks  with  his  followers  ;  the  head  that  wears 

The  imperial  diadem  goes  down  beside  20 

The  felon's  with  cropped  ear  and  branded  cheek. 

A  funeral  train  —  the  torrent  sweeps  away 

Bearers  and  bier  and  mourners.     By  the  bed 

Of  one  who  dies  men  gather  sorrowing, 

And  women  weep  aloud  ;  the  flood  rolls  on ;  25 

The  wail  is  stifled  and  the  sobbing  group 

Borne  under.     Hark  to  that  shrill,  sudden  shout, 

The  cry  of  an  applauding  multitude, 

Swayed  by  some  loud-voiced  orator  who  wields 

The  living  mass  as  if  he  were  its  soul !  30 

The  waters  choke  the  shout  and  all  is  still. 

Lo  !  next  a  kneeling  crowd,  and  one  who  spreads 

The  hands  in  prayer  —  the  engulfing  wave  o'ertakes 

And  swallows  them  and  him.     A  sculptor  wields 

The  chisel,  and  the  stricken  marble  grows  35 


62  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

To  beauty ;  at  his  easel,  eager-eyed, 

A  painter  stands,  and  sunshine  at  his  touch 

Gathers  upon  his  canvas,  and  life  glows ; 

A  poet,  as  he  paces  to  and  fro, 

Murmurs  his  sounding  lines.     Awhile  they  ride  5 

The  advancing  billow,  till  its  tossing  crest 

Strikes  them  and  flings  them  under,  while  their  tasks 

Are  yet  unfinished.     See  a  mother  smile 

On  her  young  babe  that  smiles  to  her  again ; 

The  torrent  wrests  it  from  her  arms  ;  she  shrieks  10 

And  weeps,  and  midst  her  tears  is  carried  down. 

A  beam  like  that  of  moonlight  turns  the  spray 

To  glistening  pearls  ;  two  lovers,  hand  in  hand, 

Rise  on  the  billowy  swell  and  fondly  look 

Into  each  other's  eyes.     The  rushing  flood  15 

Flings  them  apart :  the  youth  goes  down  ;  the  maid 

With  hands  outstretched  in  vain,  and  streaming  eyes, 

Waits  for  the  next  high  wave  to  follow  him. 

An  aged  man  succeeds  ;  his  bending  form 

Sinks  slowly.     Mingling  with  the  sullen  stream  20 

Gleam  the  white  locks,  and  then  are  seen  no  more. 

Lo  !  wider  grows  the  stream  —  a  sealike  flood 
Saps  earth's  walled  cities  ;  massive  palaces 
Crumble  before  it ;  fortresses  and  towers 
Dissolved  in  the  swift  waters  ;  populous  realms  25 

Swept  by  the  torrent  see  their  ancient  tribes 
Engulfed  and  lost ;  their  very  languages 
Stifled,  and  never  to  be  uttered  more. 

I  pause  and  turn  my  eyes,  and  looking  back 
Where  that  tumultuous  flood  has  been,  I  see  30 

The  silent  ocean  of  the  Past,  a  waste 
Of  waters  weltering  over  graves,  its  shores 
Strewn  with  the  wreck  of  fleets  where  mast  and  hull 
Drop  away  piecemeal ;  battlemented  walls 
Frown  idly,  green  with  moss,  and  temples  stand  35 


BRYANT  63 

Unroofed,  forsaken  by  the  worshipper. 

There  lie  memorial  stones,  whence  time  has  gnawed 

The  graven  legends,  thrones  of  kings  o'erturned, 

The  broken  altars  of  forgotten  gods, 

Foundations  of  old  cities  and  long  streets  5 

Where  never  fall  of  human  foot  is  heard, 

On  all  the  desolate  pavement.     I  behold 

Dim  glimmerings  of  lost  jewels,  far  within 

The  sleeping  waters,  diamond,  sardonyx, 

Ruby  and  topaz,  pearl  and  chrysolite,  10 

Once  glittering  at  the  banquet  on  fair  brows 

That  long  ago  were  dust ;  and  all  around 

Strewn  on  the  surface  of  that  silent  sea 

Are  withering  bridal  wreaths,  and  glossy  locks 

Shorn  from  dear  brows  by  loving  hands,  and  scrolls  15 

O'erwritten,  haply  with  fond  words  of  love 

And  vows  of  friendship,  and  fair  pages  flung 

Fresh  from  the  printer's  engine.     There  they  lie 

A  moment,  and  then  sink  away  from  sight. 

I  look,  and  the  quick  tears  are  in  my  eyes,  20 

For  I  behold  in  every  one  of  these 
A  blighted  hope,  a  separate  history 
Of  human  sorrows,  telling  of  dear  ties 
Suddenly  broken,  dreams  of  happiness 
Dissolved  in  air,  and  happy  days  too  brief  25 

That  sorrowfully  ended,  and  I  think 
How  painfully  must  the  poor  heart  have  beat 
In  bosoms  without  number,  as  the  blow 
Was  struck  that  slew  their  hope  and  broke  their  peace. 

Sadly  I  turn  and  look  before,  where  yet  30 

The  Flood  must  pass,  and  I  behold  a  mist 
Where  swarm  dissolving  forms,  the  brood  of  Hope, 
Divinely  fair,  that  rest  on  banks  of  flowers, 
Or  wander  among  rainbows,  fading  soon 
And  reappearing,  haply  giving  place  35 


64  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

To  forms  of  grisly  aspect  such  as  Fear 

Shapes  from  the  idle  air  —  where  serpents  lift 

The  head  to  strike,  and  skeletons  stretch  forth 

The  bony  arm  in  menace.     Further  on 

A  belt  of  darkness  seems  to  bar  the  way  5 

Long,  low,  and  distant,  where  the  Life  to  come 

Touches  the  Life  that  is.     The  Flood  of  Years 

Rolls  toward  it  near  and  nearer.     It  must  pass 

That  dismal  barrier.     What  is  there  beyond  ? 

Hear  what  the  wise  and  good  have  said.     Beyond  10 

That  belt  of  darkness,  still  the  Years  roll  on 

More  gently,  but  with  not  less  mighty  sweep. 

They  gather  up  again  and  softly  bear 

All  the  sweet  lives  that  late  were  overwhelmed 

And  lost  to  sight,  all  that  in  them  was  good,  15 

Noble,  and  truly  great,  and  worthy  of  love  — 

The  lives  of  infants  and  ingenuous  youths, 

Sages  and  saintly  women  who  have  made 

Their  households  happy ;  all  are  raised  and  borne 

By  that  great  current  in  its  onward  sweep,  20 

Wandering  and  rippling  with  caressing  waves 

Around  green  islands  with  the  breath 

Of  flowers  that  never  wither.     So  they  pass 

From  stage  to  stage  along  the  shining  course 

Of  that  bright  river,  broadening  like  a  sea.  25 

As  its  smooth  eddies  curl  along  their  way 

They  bring  old  friends  together ;  hands  are  clasped 

In  joy  unspeakable  ;  the  mother's  arms 

Again  are  folded  round  the  child  she  loved 

And  lost.     Old  sorrows  are  forgotten  now,  30 

Or  but  remembered  to  make  sweet  the  hour 

That  overpays  them  ;  wounded  hearts  that  bled 

Or  broke  are  healed  forever.     In  the  room 

Of  this  grief-shadowed  present,  there  shall  be 

A  Present  in  whose  reign  no  grief  shall  gnaw  35 


BRYANT  65 

The  heart,  and  never  shall  a  tender  tie 
Be  broken ;  in  whose  reign  the  eternal  Change 
That  waits  on  growth  and  action  shall  proceed 
With  everlasting  Concord  hand  in  hand. 


THE    BATTLEFIELD 

ONCE  this  soft  turf,  this  rivulet's  sands,  5 

Were  trampled  by  a  hurrying  crowd, 
And  fiery  hearts  and  armed  hands 

Encountered  in  the  battle  cloud. 

Ah  !  never  shall  the  land  forget 

How  gushed  the  life  blood  of  her  brave  —  10 

Gushed,  warm  with  hope  and  courage  yet, 

Upon  the  soil  they  fought  to  save. 

Now  all  is  calm,  and  fresh,  and  still ; 

Alone  the  chirp  of  flitting  bird, 
And  talk  of  children  on  the  hill,  I5 

And  bell  of  wandering  kine  are  heard. 

No  solemn  host  goes  trailing  by 

The  black-mouthed  gun  and  staggering  wain  ; 
Men  start  not  at  the  battle  cry, 

Oh,  be  it  never  heard  again  !  20 

Soon  rested  those  who  fought ;  but  thou 

Who  minglest  in  the  harder  strife 
For  truths  which  men  receive  not  now, 

Thy  warfare  only  ends  with  life. 

A  friendless  warfare  !  lingering  long  25 

Through  weary  day  and  weary  year, 
A  wild  and  many-weaponed  throng 

Hang  on  thy  front,  and  flank,  and  rear. 
LONG'S  AM.  POEMS  —  5 


66  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

Yet  nerve  thy  spirit  to  the  proof, 

And  blench  not  at  thy  chosen  lot. 
The  timid  good  may  stand  aloof, 

The  sage  may  frown  —  yet  faint  thou  not. 

Nor  heed  the  shaft  too  surely  cast,  5 

The  foul  and  hissing  bolt  of  scorn ; 
For  with  thy  side  shall  dwell,  at  last, 

The  victory  of  endurance  born. 

Truth,  crushed  to  earth,  shall  rise  again ; 

The  eternal  years  of  God  are  hers  ;  10 

But  Error,  wounded,  writhes  in  pain, 

And  dies  among  his  worshippers. 

Yea,  though  thou  lie  upon  the  dust, 
When  they  who  helped  thee  flee  in  fear, 

Die  full  of  hope  and  manly  trust,  15 

Like  those  who  fell  in  battle  here. 

Another  hand  thy  sword  shall  wield, 

Another  hand  the  standard  wave, 
Till  from  the  trumpet's  mouth  is  pealed 

The  blast  of  triumph  o'er  thy  grave.  20 

THE    DEATH    OF    THE    FLOWERS 

THE  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest  of  the  year, 

Of  wailing  winds,  and  naked  woods,  and  meadows  brown  and  sear. 

Heaped  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove,  the  autumn  leaves  lie  dead ; 

They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust,  and  to  the  rabbit's  tread. 

The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown,  and  from  the  shrubs  the  jay,  25 

And  from  the  wood  top  calls  the  crow  through  all  the  gloomy  day. 

Where  are  the  flowers,  the   fair  young  flowers,  that  lately  sprang 

and  stood 
In  brighter  light  and  softer  airs,  a  beauteous  sisterhood? 


BRYANT  67 

Alas  !  they  are  all  in  their  graves,  the  gentle  race  of  flowers 
Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds,  with  the  fair  and  good  of  ours. 
The  rain  is  falling  where  they  lie,  but  the  cold  November  rain 
Calls  not  from  out  the  gloomy  earth  the  lovely  ones  again. 

The  wind  flower  and  the  violet,  they  perished  long  ago,  5 

And  the  brier  rose  and  the  orchis  died  amid  the  summer  glow ; 
But  on  the  hill  the  goldenrod,  and  the  aster  in  the  wood, 
And  the  yellow  sunflower  by  the  brook,  in  autumn  beauty  stood, 
Till  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear  cold  heaven,  as  falls  the  plague  on 

men, 
And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was  gone,  from  upland,  glade, 

and  glen.  I0 

And  now,  when  comes  the  calm  mild  day,  as  still  such  days  will  come, 
To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee  from  out  their  winter  home ; 
When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is   heard,  though   all  the  trees 

are  still, 

And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the  waters  of  the  rill, 
The  south  wind  searches  for  the  flowers  whose  fragrance  late  he 

bore,  ,5 

And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and  by  the  stream  no  more. 

And  then  I  think  of  one  who  in  her  youthful  beauty  died, 

The  fair  meek  blossom  that  grew  up  and  faded  by  my  side. 

In  the  cold  moist  earth  we  laid  her,  when  the  forest  cast  the  leaf, 

And  we  wept  that  one  so  lovely  should  have  a  life  so  brief:          20 

Yet  not  unmeet  it  was  that  one  like  that  young  friend  of  ours, 

So  gentle  and  so  beautiful,  should  perish  with  the  flowers. 

THE    EVENING    WIND 

SPIRIT  that  breathest  through  my  lattice,  thou 
That  cool'st  the  twilight  of  the  sultry  day, 

Gratefully  flows  thy  freshness  round  my  brow ;  25 

Thou  hast  been  out  upon  the  deep  at  play, 


68  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

Riding  all  day  the  wild  blue  waves  till  now, 

Roughening  their  crests,  and  scattering  high  their  spray, 
And  swelling  the  white  sail.     I  welcome  thee 
To  the  scorched  land,  thou  wanderer  of  the  sea  ! 

Nor  I  alone  ;  a  thousand  bosoms  round  5 

Inhale  thee  in  the  fullness  of  delight; 
And  languid  forms  rise  up,  and  pulses  bound 

Livelier,  at  coming  of  the  wind  of  night ; 
And,  languishing  to  hear  thy  grateful  sound, 

Lies  the  vast  inland  stretched  beyond  the  sight.  10 

Go  forth  into  the  gathering  shade ;  go  forth, 
God's  blessing  breathed  upon  the  fainting  earth  ! 

Go,  rock  the  little  wood  bird  in  his  nest, 

Curl  the  still  waters,  bright  with  stars,  and  rouse 

The  wide  old  wood  from  his  majestic  rest,  i, 

Summoning  from  the  innumerable  boughs 

The  strange,  deep  harmonies  that  haunt  his  breast ; 
Pleasant  shall  be  thy  way  where  meekly  bows 

The  shutting  flower,  and  darkling  waters  pass, 

And  where  the  o'ershadowing  branches  sweep  the  grass.       20 

The  faint  old  man  shall  lean  his  silver  head 
To  feel  thee  ;  thou  shalt  kiss  the  child  asleep, 

And  dry  the  moistened  curls  that  overspread 

His  temples,  while  his  breathing  grows  more  deep ; 

And  they  who  stand  about  the  sick  man's  bed  25 

Shall  joy  to  listen  to  thy  distant  sweep, 

And  softly  part  his  curtains  to  allow 

Thy  visit,  grateful  to  his  burning  brow. 

Go  —  but  the  circle  of  eternal  change, 

Which  is  the  life  of  Nature,  shall  restore,  30 

With  sounds  and  scents  from  all  thy  mighty  range, 

Thee  to  thy  birthplace  of  the  deep  once  more ; 


BRVANT  69 

Sweet  odors  in  the  sea  air,  sweet  and  strange, 

Shall  tell  the  homesick  mariner  of  the  shore ; 
And,  listening  to  thy  murmur,  he  shall  deem 
He  hears  the  rustling  leaf  and  running  stream. 

TO  THE    FRINGED    GENTIAN 

THOU  blossom  bright  with  autumn  dew,  5 

And  colored  with  the  heaven's  own  blue, 
That  openest  when  the  quiet  light 
Succeeds  the  keen  and  frosty  night, 

Thou  comest  not  when  violets  lean 

O'er  wandering  brooks  and  springs  unseen,  10 

Or  columbines,  in  purple  dressed, 

Nod  o'er  the  ground-bird's  hidden  nest. 

Thou  waitest  late  and  com'st  alone, 

When  woods  are  bare  and  birds  are  flown, 

And  frost  and  shortening  days  portend  15 

The  aged  year  is  near  his  end. 

Then  doth  thy  sweet  and  quiet  eye 
Look  through  its  fringes  to  the  sky, 
Blue  —  blue  —  as  if  that  sky  let  fall 
A  flower  from  its  cerulean  wall.  20 

I  would  that  thus,  when  I  shall  see 
The  hour  of  death  draw  near  to  me, 
Hope,  blossoming  within  my  heart, 
May  look  to  heaven  as  I  depart. 

TO    A   WATERFOWL 

WHITHER,  midst  falling  dew,  25 

While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 

Thy  solitary  way  ? 


70  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 

Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As,  darkly  painted  on  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide, 
Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean  side? 

There  is  a  Power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast  — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air  — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end ; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and  rest, 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows  ;  reeds  shall  bend, 

Soon,  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou'rt  gone  !  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form  ;  yet  on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 

And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He,  who,  from  zone  ^o  zone, 

Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight, 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 


BRYANT  71 

AMERICA 

OH  mother  of  a  mighty  race, 
Yet  lovely  in  thy  youthful  grace  ! 
The  elder  dames,  thy  haughty  peers, 
Admire  and  hate  thy  blooming  years. 

With  words  of  shame  5 

And  taunts  of  scorn  they  join  thy  name. 

For  on  thy  cheeks  the  glow  is  spread 

That  tints  thy  morning  hills  with  red  ; 

Thy  step  —  the  wild  deer's  rustling  feet 

Within  thy  woods  are  not  more  fleet ;  10 

Thy  hopeful  eye 
Is  bright  as  thine  own  sunny  sky. 

Aye,  let  them  rail  —  those  haughty  ones, 

While  safe  thou  dwellest  with  thy  sons. 

They  do  not  know  how  loved  thou  art,  15 

How  many  a  fond  and  fearless  heart 

Would  rise  to  throw 
Its  life  between  thee  and  the  foe. 

They  know  not,  in  their  hate  and  pride, 

What  virtues  with  thy  children  bide  ;  20 

How  true,  how  good,  thy  graceful  maids 

Make  bright,  like  flowers,  the  valley  shades  ; 

What  generous  men 
Spring,  like  thine  oaks,  by  hill  and  glen  ;  — 

What  cordial  welcomes  greet  the  guest  25 

By  thy  lone  rivers  of  the  West ; 
How  faith  is  kept,  and  truth  revered, 
And  man  is  loved,  and  God  is  feared, 

In  woodland  homes, 
And  where  the  ocean  border  foams,  30 


72  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

There's  freedom  at  thy  gates  and  rest 
For  Earth's  down-trodden  and  opprest, 
A  shelter  for  the  hunted  head, 
For  the  starved  laborer  toil  and  bread. 

Power,  at  thy  bounds, 
Stops  and  calls  back  his  baffled  hounds. 

Oh,  fair  young  mother  !  on  thy  brow 
Shall  sit  a  nobler  grace  than  now. 
Deep  in  the  brightness  of  the  skies 
The  thronging  years  in  glory  rise, 

And,  as  they  fleet, 
Drop  strength  and  riches  at  thy  feet. 

Thine  eye,  with  every  corning  hour, 
Shall  brighten,  and  thy  form  shall  tower ; 
And  when  thy  sisters,  elder  born, 
Would  brand  thy  name  with  words  of  scorn, 

Before  thine  eye, 
Upon  their  lips  the  taunt  shall  die. 


RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON 

1803-1882 

THE  life  of  Emerson,  although  marked  by  few  real  hardships, 
was  not  so  unruffled  as  that  of  Longfellow,  Holmes,  or  Lowell.  He 
was  born  at  Boston,  not  far  from  the  spot  where  Benjamin  Franklin  was 
born  nearly  a  century  earlier,  and  spent  most  of  his  life  at  Concord, 
where  he  died.  His  father  was  minister  of  the  First  Church  at  Boston. 
His  ancestors,  most  of  whom  were  ministers,  had  been  settled  in  New 
England  for  five  generations.  He  thus  belonged  to  what  Dr.  Holmes 
called  the  "Brahmin  caste11  of  New  England,  and  inherited  its  tradi 
tions  of  plain  living  and  high  thinking,  as  well  as  of  resolute  daring. 
His  grandfather  was  minister  of  the  church  at  Concord  when  the 


EMERSON  73 

Revolution  broke  out,  and  urged  his  parishioners  on  to  the  fight  at 
Concord  Bridge  in  1775,  —  the  fight  which  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 
afterwards  celebrated  in  song.  The  same  fighting  quality  was  shown 
by  Emerson,  not  in  arms,  but  in  a  moral  and  intellectual  way. 

Emerson  was  eight  years  old  when  his  father  died.  He  entered  the 
Latin  School  and  spent  a  studious  youth.  Puritan  influences  were  still 
strong,  and  it  is  said  that  he  rarely  played,  and  that  he  never  owned  a 
sled.  His  patriotism,  however,  was  on  the  alert.  While  a  schoolboy 
during  the  War  of  1812,  when  a  rumor  came  that  the  British  were  to 
send  a  fleet  to  blockade  Boston  Harbor,  he  went  with  the  rest  of  the 
boys  to  build  earthworks  to  protect  the  city.  He  also  wrote  boyish 
verses  celebrating  the  victories  of  the  American  navy. 

He  entered  Harvard  in  1817.  As  his  widowed  mother  found  it 
necessary  to  take  in  boarders  in  order  to  educate  her  sons,  Emerson 
got  the  appointment  at  Harvard  of  "President's  Freshman,"  by  which 
he  got  his  lodgings  free  by  carrying  official  messages.  He  also  helped 
to  pay  his  board  by  serving  at  the  college  commons  as  waiter.  While 
at  college  Emerson  came  under  the  influence  of  such  teachers  as  Ed 
ward  Everett  and  George  Ticknor.  He  was  not  distinguished  as  a 
scholar,  but  he  read  widely,  and  was  appointed  class  poet  at  graduation. 

For  several  years  after  leaving  college  he  assisted  his  brother  in  con 
ducting  in  Boston  "  a  young  ladies'  seminary,11  earning  money  to  pay 
his  debts  and  to  help  his  mother,  and  at  the  same  time  studying 
divinity.  In  1829  he  was  appointed  assistant  pastor  of  the  Second 
Church  in  Boston,  and  shortly  became  the  regular  minister.  During 
this  pastorate  he  married  Miss  Ellen  Tucker,  who  died  a  few  months 
afterward.  Not  long  after  the  death  of  his  wife,  he  severed  his  pastoral 
connection  with  his  church,  owing  to  a  difference  of  opinion  with  his 
parishioners  as  to  the  importance  of  celebrating  the  Lord^  Supper. 

Emerson  continued  to  preach  irregularly  for  some  years,  but  he  never 
again  held  a  charge.  His  loss  to  the  church  was  a  distinct  gain  to 
literature.  In  1832  he  sailed  for  Europe,  and  visited  Italy,  France, 
and  Great  Britain.  In  England  he  met  Carlyle,  Wordsworth,  and 
Coleridge.  With  Carlyle  he  formed  a  lasting  friendship. 

Upon  his  return  from  Europe,  Emerson  settled  in  Concord,  a  village 
near  Boston,  where  he  remained  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  In  1835  ne 
married  Miss  Lidian  Jackson,  with  whom  for  nearly  half  a  century  he 
lived  happily.  At  Concord  he  farmed,  he  thought,  and  he  wrote  ;  he  was 
also  a  good  citizen  and  neighbor.  By  inheritance  he  was  an  aristocrat. 


74  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

He  had,  however,  exquisitely  fine  democratic  ways.  In  his  bearing 
there  was  never  the  slightest  assumption  of  superiority.  He  was  kindly, 
just,  affable,  but  with  a  touch  of  reticence,  and  he  bore  the  hard  knocks 
of  the  world  with  such  smiling  serenity  that  people  often  thought  him 
self-centered,  and  at  times  insolent.  But  this  apparent  self-sufficiency 
was  really  self-mastery. 

Not  long  after  Emerson  settled  at  Concord,  he  published  his  first 
book,  Nature,  and  soon  afterwards  delivered  a  notable  oration  on  77/6' 
American  Scholar  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society  at  Harvard.  In 
this  oration  he  urged  American  scholars  to  be  self-reliant,  and  to  break 
away  from  European  influences.  Dr.  Holmes  declared  this  oration 
to  be  "our  intellectual  Declaration  of  Independence.1'  Lowell,  then 
a  senior  in  college,  wrote  of  the  event  afterwards:  "What  crowded 
and  breathless  aisles,  what  windows  clustering  with  eager  heads,  what 
enthusiasm  of  approval,  what  grim  silence  of  foregone  dissent!11 

After  Emerson  had  published  Nature  and  had  delivered  the  Phi 
Beta  Kappa  oration,  he  was  fairly  launched  as  a  man  of  letters. 
Throughout  his  long  life  he  worked  brilliantly  in  prose  and  verse,  and 
he  was  successful  on  the  lecture  platform.  His  complete  works  consist 
of  eleven  volumes,  ten  in  prose  and  one  in  verse.  His  prose  consists 
mostly  of  essays,  but  he  wrote  two  long  volumes,  Representative  Men 
and  English  Traits.  His  essays  cover  a  wide  range  of  thought.  They 
discuss  manners,  morals,  love,  solitude,  and  almost  everything  which 
bears  upon  human  conduct.  The  gospel  of  self-reliance  is  preached  in 
no  uncertain  tone;  also  the  gospel  of  individualism.  Be  yourself,  and 
not  an  imitator ;  rely  upon  yourself,  and  not  upon  others  ;  aim  high, 
and  work  hard,  and  be  cheerful.  "  Hitch  your  waggon  to  a  star,11  he 
said,  and  he  did  it  himself;  but  he  never  let  the  weeds  choke  his  corn, 
or  failed  to  keep  a  comfortable  balance  in  the  bank.  It  is  this  sane 
blending  of  ideality  and  shrewd  common  sense  that  makes  Emerson  so 
stimulating  a  force. 

Emerson's  one  volume  of  poetry,  in  spite  of  its  shortcomings,  seems 
likely  to  live  long.  In  verse  as  in  prose  he  was  not  a  workman  who 
polished  his  wares.  Matter  seemed  to  him  more  worth  while  than 
manner.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  his  verse  lacks  smoothness  and 
sensuous  charm,  and  that  the  element  of  human  passion  is  weak.  It 
displays,  however,  a  profound  love  of  nature,  an  abiding  patriotism,  and 
sudden  turns  of  thought  which  quicken  the  imagination,  invigorate  the 
spirit,  and  live  in  the  memory. 


EMERSON  75 


CONCORD    HYMN 

SUNG    AT    THE    COMPLETION    OF    THE    BATTLE    MONUMENT,    APRIL     19, 

1836 

BY  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 
Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 

Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood, 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 

The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept ;  5 

Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps  ; 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 

Down  the  dark  stream  which  seaward  creeps. 

On  this  green  bank,  by  this  soft  stream, 

We  set  to-day  a  votive  stone  ;  .10 

That  memory  may  their  deed  redeem, 
When,  like  our  sires,  our  sons  are  gone. 

Spirit,  that  made  those  heroes  dare 
To  die,  and  leave  their  children  free, 

Bid  Time  and  Nature  gently  spare  15 

The  shaft  we  raise  to  them  and  thee. 


THE   PROBLEM 

I  LIKE  a  church  ;  I  like  a  cowl ; 

I  love  a  prophet  of  the  soul ; 

And  on  my  heart  monastic  aisles 

Fall  like  sweet  strains,  or  pensive  smiles 

Yet  not  for  all  his  faith  can  see 

Would  I  that  cowled  churchman  be. 


MIDDLE  PERIOD 

Why  should  the  vest  on  him  allure, 
Which  I  could  not  on  me  endure? 

Not  from  vain  or  shallow  thought 

His  awful  Jove  young  Phidias  brought ; 

Never  from  lips  of  cunning  fell  5 

The  thrilling  Delphic  oracle  ; 

Out  from  the  heart  of  nature  rolled 

The  burdens  of  the  Bible  old; 

The  litanies  of  nations  came, 

Like  the  volcano's  tongue  of  flame,  i0 

Up  from  the  burning  core  below,  — • 

The  canticles  of  love  and  woe  : 

The  hand  that  rounded  Peter's  dome 

And  groined  the  aisles  of  Christian  Rome 

Wrought  in  a  sad  sincerity  ;  I5 

Himself  from  God  he  could  not  free ; 

He  builded  better  than  he  knew ; 

The  conscious  stone  to  beauty  grew. 

Knowst  thou  what  wove  yon  wood  bird's  nest 

Of  leaves  and  feathers  from  her  breast?  AJ 

Or  how  the  fish  outbuilt  her  shell, 

Painting  with  morn  each  annual  cell  ? 

Or  how  the  sacred  pine  tree  adds 

To  her  old  leaves  new  myriads  ? 

Such  and  so  grew  these  holy  piles,  25 

Whilst  love  and  terror  laid  the  tiles. 

Earth  proudly  wears  the  Parthenon, 

As  the  best  gem  upon  her  zone, 

And  Morning  opes  with  haste  her  lids 

To  gaze  upon  the  Pyramids  ;  30 

O'er  England's  abbeys  bends  the  sky, 

As  on  its  friends,  with  kindred  eye  ; 

For  out  of  Thought's  interior  sphere 


EMERSON  77 

These  wonders  rose  to  upper  air ; 

And  Nature  gladly  gave  them  place, 

Adopted  them  into  her  race, 

And  granted  them  an  equal  date 

With  Andes  and  with  Ararat.  5 

These  temples  grew  as  grows  the  grass 

Art  might  obey,  but  not  surpass. 

The  passive  Master  lent  his  hand 

To  the  vast  soul  that  o'er  him  planned  ; 

And  the  same  power  that  reared  the  shrine  10 

Bestrode  the  tribes  that  knelt  within. 

Ever  the  fiery  Pentecost 

Girds  with  one  flame  the  countless  host, 

Trances  the  heart  through  chanting  choirs, 

And  through  the  priest  the  mind  inspires.  15 

The  word  unto  the  prophet  spoken 

Was  writ  on  tables  yet  unbroken  ; 

The  word  by  seers  or  sibyls  told, 

In  groves  of  oak,  or  fanes  of  gold, 

Still  floats  upon  the  morning  wind,  20 

Still  whispers  to  the  willing  mind. 

One  accent  of  the  Holy  Ghost 

The  heedless  world  hath  never  lost. 

I  know  what  say  the  fathers  wise,  — 

The  Book  itself  before  me  lies,  25 

Old  Chrysostom,  best  Augustine, 

And  he  who  blent  both  in  his  line, 

The  younger  Golden  Lips  or  mines, 

Taylor,  the  Shakespeare  of  divines. 

His  words  are  music  in  my  ear,  30 

I  see  his  cowled  portrait  dear ; 

And  yet,  for  all  his  faith  could  see, 

I  would  not  the  good  bishop  be. 


78  MIDDLE   PERIOD 


EACH   AND   ALL 

LITTLE  thinks,  in  the  field,  yon  red-cloaked  clown 

Of  thee  from  the  hill  top  looking  down  ; 

The  heifer  that  lows  in  the  upland  farm, 

Far-heard,  lows  not  thine  ear  to  charm ; 

The  sexton,  tolling  his  bell  at  noon, 

Deems  not  that  great  Napoleon 

Stops  his  horse,  and  lists  with  delight, 

Whilst  his  files  sweep  round  yon  Alpine  height ; 

Nor  knowest  thou  what  argument 

Thy  life  to  thy  neighbor's  creed  has  lent. 

All  are  needed  by  each  one ; 

Nothing  is  fair  or  good  alone. 

I  thought  the  sparrow's  note  from  heaven, 

Singing  at  dawn  on  the  alder  bough ; 

I  brought  him  home,  in  his  nest,  at  even  ;  15 

He  sings  the  song,  but  it  cheers  not  now, 

For  I  did  not  bring  home  the  river  and  sky; 

He  sang  to  my  ear,  —  they  sang  to  my  eye. 

The  delicate  shells  lay  on  the  shore  ; 

The  bubbles  of  the  latest  wave  20 

Fresh  pearls  to  their  enamel  gave, 

And  the  bellowing  of  the  savage  sea 

Greeted  their  safe  escape  to  me. 

I  wiped  away  the  weeds  and  foam, 

I  fetched  my  sea-born  treasures  home ;  25 

But  the  poor,  unsightly,  noisome  things 

Had  left  their  beauty  on  the  shore 

With  the  sun  and  the  sand  and  the  wild  uproar. 

The  lover  watched  his  graceful  maid, 

As  mid  the  virgin  train  she  strayed,  30 

Nor  knew  her  beauty's  best  attire 

Was  woven  still  by  the  snow-white  choir. 

At  last  she  came  to  his  hermitage, 


EMERSON  79 

Like  the  bird  from  the  woodlands  to  the  cage ; 

The  gay  enchantment  was  undone, 

A  gentle  wife,  but  fairy  none. 

Then  I  said,  "  I  covet  truth  ; 

Beauty  is  unripe  childhood's  cheat ;  5 

I  leave  it  behind  with  the  games  of  youth :  " 

As  I  spoke,  beneath  my  feet 

The  ground  pine  curled  its  pretty  wreath, 

Running  over  the  club  moss  burs ; 

I  inhaled  the  violet's  breath  ;  10 

Around  me  stood  the  oaks  and  firs ; 

Pine  cones  and  acorns  lay  on  the  ground ; 

Over  me  soared  the  eternal  sky, 

Full  of  light  and  of  deity  ; 

Again  I  saw,  again  I  heard,  15 

The  rolling  river,  the  morning  bird ; 

Beauty  through  my  senses  stole  ; 

I  yielded  myself  to  the  perfect  whole. 

DAYS 

DAUGHTERS  of  Time,  the  hypocritic  Days, 

Muffled  and  dumb  like  barefoot  dervishes,  20 

And  marching  single  in  an  endless  file, 

Bring  diadems  and  fagots  in  their  hands. 

To  each  they  offer  gifts  after  his  will, 

Bread,  kingdoms,  stars,  and  sky  that  holds  them  all. 

I,  in  my  pleached  garden,  watched  the  pomp,  25 

Forgot  my  morning  wishes,  hastily 

Took  a  few  herbs  and  apples,  and  the  Day 

Turned  and  departed  silent.     I,  too  late, 

Under  her  solemn  fillet  saw  the  scorn. 


80  MIDDLE    PERIOD 

FORBEARANCE 

HAST  thou  named  all  the  birds  without  a  gun? 

Loved  the  wood  rose,  and  left  it  on  its  stalk  ? 

At  rich  men's  tables  eaten  bread  and  pulse? 

Unarmed,  faced  danger  with  a  heart  of  trust? 

And  loved  so  well  a  high  behavior,  5 

In  man  or  maid,  that  thou  from  speech  refrained, 

Nobility  more  nobly  to  repay? 

Oh,  be  my  friend,  and  teach  me  to  be  thine  ! 

THE    HUMBLE-BEE 

BURLY,  dozing  humble-bee, 

Where  thou  art  is  clime  for  me.  10 

Let  them  sail  for  Porto  Rique, 

Far-off  heats  through  seas  to  seek  ; 

I  will  follow  thee  alone, 

Thou  animated  torrid  zone  ! 

Zigzag  steerer,  desert  cheerer,  15 

Let  me  chase  thy  waving  lines  ; 

Keep  me  nearer,  me  thy  hearer, 

Singing  over  shrubs  and  vines. 

Insect  lover  of  the  sun, 

Joy  of  thy  dominion  !  20 

Sailor  of  the  atmosphere  ; 

Swimmer  through  the  waves  of  air  ; 

Voyager  of  light  and  noon  ; 

Epicurean  of  June ; 

Wait,  I  prithee,  till  I  come  25 

Within  earshot  of  thy  hum,  — 

All  without  is  martyrdom. 

When  the  south  wind,  in  May  days, 
With  a  net  of  shining  haze 


EMERSON  8 1 

Silvers  the  horizon  wall, 

And  with  softness  touching  all, 

Tints  the  human  countenance 

With  the  color  of  romance, 

And  infusing  subtle  heats,  5 

Turns  the  sod  to  violets, 

Thou,  in  sunny  solitudes, 

Rover  of  the  underwoods, 

The  green  silence  dost  displace 

With  thy  mellow,  breezy  bass.  jo 

Hot  midsummer's  petted  crone, 

Sweet  to  me  thy  drowsy  tone 

Tells  of  countless  sunny  hours, 

Long  days,  and  solid  banks  of  flowers, 

Of  gulfs  of  sweetness  without  bound  15 

In  Indian  wildernesses  found  ; 

Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure, 

Firmest  cheer,  and  birdlike  pleasure. 

Aught  unsavory  or  unclean 

Hath  my  insect  never  seen  ;  20 

But  violets  and  bilberry  bells, 

Maple-sap  and  daffodels, 

Grass  with  green  flag  half-mast  high, 

Succory  to  match  the  sky, 

Columbine  with  horn  of  honey,  25 

Scented  fern  and  agrimony, 

Clover,  catchfly,  adder's  tongue 

And  brier  roses,  dwelt  among ; 

All  beside  was  unknown  waste, 

All  was  picture  as  he  passed.  30 

Wiser  far  than  human  seer, 
Yellow-breeched  philosopher 
LONG'S  AM.  POEMS  —  6 


82  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

Seeing  only  what  is  fair, 

Sipping  only  what  is  sweet, 

Thou  dost  mock  at  fate  and  care, 

Leave  the  chaff  and  take  the  wheat. 

When  the  fierce  northwestern  blast  5 

Cools  sea  and  land  so  far  and  fast, 

Thou  already  slumberest  deep  ; 

Woe  and  want  thou  canst  outsleep ; 

Want  and  woe,  which  torture  us, 

Thy  sleep  makes  ridiculous.  10 

THE   SNOW-STORM 

ANNOUNCED  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky, 

Arrives  the  snow,  and,  driving  o'er  the  fields, 

Seems  nowhere  to  alight :  the  whitecl  air 

Hides  hills  and  woods,  the  river,  and  the  heaven, 

And  veils  the  farmhouse  at  the  garden's  end.  15 

The  sled  and  traveler  stopped,  the  courier's  feet 

Delayed,  all  friends  shut  out,  the  house  mates  sit 

Around  the  radiant  fireplace,  inclosed 

In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm. 

Come,  see  the  north  wind's  masonry.  20 

Out  of  an  unseen  quarry  evermore 
Furnished  with  tile,  the  fierce  artificer 
Curves  his  white  bastions  with  projected  roof 
Round  every  windward  stake,  or  tree,  or  door. 
Speeding,  the  myriad-handed,  his  wild  work  25 

So  fanciful,  so  savage,  naught  cares  he 
For  number  or  proportion.     Mockingly, 
On  coop  or  kennel  he  hangs  Parian  wreaths  ; 
A  swanlike  form  invests  the  hidden  thorn  ; 
Fills  up  the  farmer's  lane  from  wall  to  wall,  30 

Mauger  the  farmer's  sighs ;  and  at  the  gate 


EMERSON  83 

A  tapering  turret  overtops  the  work. 

And  when  his  hours  are  numbered,  and  the  world 

Is  all  his  own,  retiring,  as  he  were  not, 

Leaves,  when  the  sun  appears,  astonished  Art 

To  mimic  in  slow  structures,  stone  by  stone,  5 

Built  in  an  age,  the  mad  wind's  night  work, 

The  frolic  architecture  of  the  snow. 

THE   RHODORA 

ON    BEING    ASKED    WHENCE    IS   THE    FLOWER 

IN  May,  when  sea  winds  pierced  our  solitudes, 

I  found  the  fresh  Rhodora  in  the  woods, 

Spreading  its  leafless  blooms  in  a  damp  nook,  10 

To  please  the  desert  and  the  sluggish  brook. 

The  purple  petals,  fallen  in  the  pool, 

Made  the  black  water  with  their  beauty  gay ; 

Here  might  the  redbird  come  his  plumes  to  cool, 

And  court  the  flower  that  cheapens  his  array.  15 

Rhodora  !  if  the  sages  ask  thee  why 

This  charm  is  wasted  on  the  earth  and  sky, 

Tell  them,  dear,  that  if  eyes  were  made  for  seeing, 

Then  Beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being  : 

Why  thou  wert  there,  O  rival  of  the  rose  !  20 

I  never  thought  to  ask,  I  never  knew  : 

But,  in  my  simple  ignorance,  suppose 

The  self-same  Power  that  brought  me  there  brought  you. 

GOOD-BY,    PROUD   WORLD! 

GOOD-BY,  proud  world  !  I'm  going  home  : 

Thou  art  not  my  friend,  and  I'm  not  thine.  25 

Long  through  the  weary  crowds  I  roam ; 

A  river  ark  on  the  ocean  brine, 

Long  I've  been  tossed  like  the  driven  foam  j 

But  now,  proud  world  !  I'm  going  home. 


84  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

Good-by  to  Flattery's  fawning  face ; 

To  Grandeur  with  his  wise  grimace ; 

To  upstart  Wealth's  averted  eye ; 

To  supple  Office,  low  and  high ; 

To  crowded  halls,  to  court  and  street ;  5 

To  frozen  hearts  and  hasting  feet ; 

To  those  who  go,  and  those  who  come ; 

Good-by,  proud  world  !  I'm  going  home. 

I'm  going  to  my  own  hearthstone, 

Bosomed  in  yon  green  hills  alone,  —  10 

A  secret  nook  in  a  pleasant  land, 

Whose  groves  the  frolic  fairies  planned ; 

Where  arches  green,  the  livelong  day, 

Echo  the  blackbird's  roundelay, 

And  vulgar  feet  have  never  trod  15 

A  spot  that  is  sacred  to  thought  and  God. 

Oh,  when  I  am  safe  in  my  sylvan  home, 

I  tread  on  the  pride  of  Greece  and  Rome ; 

And  when  I  am  stretched  beneath  the  pines, 

Where  the  evening  star  so  holy  shines,  20 

I  laugh  at  the  lore  and  pride  of  man, 

At  the  sophist  schools  and  the  learned  clan ; 

For  what  are  they  all,  in  their  high  conceit, 

When  man  in  the  bush  with  God  may  meet? 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 

1807-1882 

ALL  of  the  greater  poets  of  America  during  the  Middle  Period  were 
born  in  Massachusetts  except  Longfellow,  who  was  born  at  Portland, 
^aine.  His  father  was  a  lawyer  of  prominence  who  had  once  been  a 


LONGFELLOW  85 

member  of  Congress.  On  his  mother's  side,  he  was,  like  Bryant, 
descended  from  John  and  Priscilla  Alden.  There  was  also  fighting 
blood  in  the  family.  His  mother's  father  was  a  general  in  the  Revolu 
tion,  and  his  uncle,  for  whom  he  was  named,  was  in  the  navy,  and  was 
killed  at  Tripoli. 

The  first  book  which  made  a  strong  impression  on  Longfellow  as  a 
boy  was  Irving's  Sketch-Book,  and  he  read  it,  as  he  says,  "with  ever- 
increasing  wonder  and  delight,  spellbound  by  its  pleasant  humour,  its 
melancholy  tenderness,  its  atmosphere  of  reverie." 

Longfellow  was  sent  to  college  at  Bowdoin  in  Maine,  where  he  was 
graduated,  with  Hawthorne  as  a  classmate,  in  1825.  Another  fellow- 
student  was  Franklin  Pierce,  who  afterwards  became  President  of  the 
United  States.  In  college  Longfellow  was  noted  for  both  high  char 
acter  and  scholarly  attainments.  After  graduation  he  spent  four  years 
in  Germany,  France,  Italy,  and  Spain,  familiarizing  himself  with  the 
languages  and  literatures  of  those  countries.  On  his  return  in  1829  he 
was  appointed  professor  of  modern  languages  at  Bowdoin.  In  1831 
he  married  Miss  Mary  Potter,  who  survived  only  a  few  years.  In  1834 
he  again  went  abroad  for  several  months  to  study,  having  been  called 
to  Harvard  to  fill  the  Smith  professorship  of  modern  languages.)  He 
began  his  duties  at  Harvard  in  1836,  and  Cambridge  became  his  home  for 
the  remainder  of  his  life.  He  lived  in  the  old  Craigie  House,  which  was 
once  Washington's  headquarters.  It  was  at  Harvard  that  he  won  dis 
tinction  both  as  a  teacher  and  as  a  man  of  letters.  It  was  during  these 
years,  too,  that  he  married  Miss  Frances  Appleton,  with  whom  he  lived  in 
the  greatest  happiness  for  many  years  until  her  tragic  death.  Her  dress 
caught  fire  and  she  was  burned  to  death  before  her  husband  could  put 
out  the  flames.  He  himself  was  so  badly  burned  that  he  was  unable  to 
attend  her  funeral.  But,  for  the  most  part,  these  years  at  Cambridge  were 
happy  years.  Surrounded  by  his  growing  family  and  by  devoted  friends, 
secure  in  fortune,  and  with  a  widening  fame,  his  lot  was  fortunate 
beyond  that  which  falls  to  most  men.  When,  finally,  his  class-room 
duties  began  to  grow  irksome,  he  resigned  the  Smith  professorship  in 
1854  to  James  Russell  Lowell,  and  devoted  the  remainder  of  his  life  to 
purely  literary  work.  As  a  citizen  and  as  a  neighbor,  his  popularity 
was  as  great  as  it  was  among  the  great  world  of  his  readers.  His  life 
was  so  stainless,  and  his  temper  so  kindly,  that,  in  his  last  years,  his 
benign  and  gracious  presence  fell  upon  the  community  almost  like  a 
benediction.  He  died  rather  suddenly  at  the  age  of  seventy-five,  and 


86  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

was  buried  during  a  March  snowstorm  in  Mount  Auburn  cemetery, 
overlooking  the  Charles  River,  in  Cambridge.  It  was  at  his  funeral 
that  Emerson,  old  and  feeble,  contracted  a  cold  which  led  to  his  death 
a  few  days  later. 

Longfellow's  literary  productiveness  extended  over  a  rather  wide  field. 
His  three  prose  romances  —  Outre-Mer,  Hyperion,  and  Kcwanagh  — 
are  graceful,  dreamy,  and  sentimental,  but  they  do  not  show  the  power 
of  narration  which  Longfellow  displays  in  his  longer  poems.  Chief  of 
these  longer  poems  are  The  Courtship  of  -  Miles  Standish,  a  romance 
of  early  colonial  days  at  Plymouth  ;  Evangeline,  a  pastoral  idyl  of  Aca 
dian  life  in  Canada ;  and  Hiawatha,  a  tale  in  which  he  follows  Freneau 
and  Cooper  in  making  the  red  man  a  romantic  figure.  He  also  made 
many  graceful  translations  from  European  languages.  But,  after  all, 
Longfellow's  fame  seems  to  rest  most  securely  upon  his  lyrics  and  bal 
lads.  He  knew  the  art  of  telling  a  story  in  verse  effectively,  while  his 
lyrics  — such,  for  instance,  as  The  Bridge  and  The  Day  Is  Done- 
have  gone  straight  to  the  hearts  and  minds  of  thousands.  It  has  been 
said  of  Longfellow  that  he  lacked  strong  feeling,  and  also  the  flamelike 
imaginative  power  which  belongs  to  very  great  poets ;  and  this  is  true. 
But  he  has  so  many  other  poetic  gifts  that  his  fame  seems  reasonably 
sure  to  endure.  He  has  unerring  good  taste,  which  has  so  happily  been 
called  the  conscience  of  the  mind.  He  has,  too,  grace  and  lucidity  of 
phrase,  the  power  to  express  rhythmically  the  entire  range  of  gentle 
sentiment,  warm  human  sympathy,  and  a  lively  though  not  powerful 
imagination.  His  very  great  popularity  as  a  poet,  both  in  America  and 
in  England  — a  popularity  which  began  over  half  a  century  ago  and 
which  continues  to  hold  —  bears  witness  to  effective  and  unusual  artistic 
powers. 

THE   SKELETON    IN    ARMOR 

"  SPEAK  !  speak !  thou  fearful  guest ! 
Who,  with  thy  hollow  breast 
Still  in  rude  armor  drest, 

Comest  to  daunt  me  ! 

Wrapt  not  in  Eastern  balms,  5 

But  with  thy  fleshless  palms 
Stretched,  as  if  asking  alms, 

Why  dost  thou  haunt  me  ?  " 


LONGFELLOW  8/ 

Then  from  those  cavernous  eyes 
Pale  flashes  seemed  to  rise, 
As  when  the  Northern  skies 

Gleam  in  December ; 

And,  like  the  water's  flow  5 

Under  December's  snow, 
Came  a  dull  voice  of  woe 

From  the  heart's  chamber. 

"  I  was  a  Viking  old  ! 

My  deeds,  though  manifold,  10 

No  Skald  in  song  has  told, 

No  Saga  taught  thee  ! 
Take  heed  that  in  thy  verse 
Thou  dost  the  tale  rehearse, 
Else  dread  a  dead  man's  curse ;  15 

For  this  I  sought  thee. 

"  Far  in  the  Northern  Land, 
By  the  wild  Baltic's  strand, 
I,  with  my  childish  hand, 

Tamed  the  gerfalcon ;  20 

And,  with  my  skates  fast  bound, 
Skimmed  the  half-frozen  Sound 
That  the  poor  whimpering  hound 
Trembled  to  walk  on. 

"  Oft  to  his  frozen  lair  25 

Tracked  I  the  grisly  bear, 
While  from  my  path  the  hare 

Fled  like  a  shadow  ; 
Oft  through  the  forest  dark 

Followed  the  were-wolf's  bark,  30 

Until  the  soaring  lark 

Sang  from  the  meadow. 


88  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

"  But  when  I  older  grew, 
Joining  a  corsair's  crew, 
O'er  the  dark  sea  I  flew 

With  the  marauders. 
Wild  was  the  life  we  led ; 
Many  the  souls  that  sped, 
Many  the  hearts  that  bled, 

By  our  stern  orders. 


"  Many  a  wassail-bout 

Wore  the  long  Winter  out ;  10 

Often  our  midnight  shout 

Set  the  cocks  crowing, 
As  we  the  Berserk's  tale 
Measured  in  cups  of  ale, 
Draining  the  oaken  pail  15 

Filled  to  o'erflowing. 

"  Once  as  I  told  in  glee 
Tales  of  the  stormy  sea, 
Soft  eyes  did  gaze  on  me, 

Burning  yet  tender;  20 

And  as  the  white  stars  shine 
On  the  dark  Norway  pine, 
On  that  dark  heart  of  mine 

Fell  their  soft  splendor. 

"  I  wooed  the  blue-eyed  maid,  25 

Yielding,  yet  half  afraid, 
And  in  the  forest's  shade 

Our  vows  were  plighted. 
Under  its  loosened  vest 

Fluttered  her  little  breast,  30 

Like  birds  within  their  nest 

By  the  hawk  frighted. 


LONGFELLOW  89 

"  Bright  in  her  father's  hall 
Shields  gleamed  upon  the  wall, 
Loud  sang  the  minstrels  all, 

Chanting  his  glory ; 

When  of  old  Hildebrand  5 

I  asked  his  daughter's  hand, 
Mute  did  the  minstrels  stand 

To  hear  my  story. 

"  While  the  brown  ale  he  quaffed, 

Loud  then  the  champion  laughed,  10 

And  as  the  wind  gusts  waft 

The  sea  foam  brightly, 
So  the  loud  laugh  of  scorn, 
Out  of  those  lips  unshorn, 
From  the  deep  drinking  horn  15 

Blew  the  foam  lightly. 

"  She  was  a  Prince's  child, 

I  but  a  Viking  wild, 

And  though  she  blushed  and  smiled, 

I  was  discarded  !  20 

Should  not  the  dove  so  white 
Follow  the  sea  mew's  flight? 
Why  did  they  leave  that  night 

Her  nest  unguarded  ? 

"  Scarce  had  I  put  to  sea,  25 

Bearing  the  maid  with  me,  — 
Fairest  of  all  was  she 

Among  the  Norsemen  !  — 
When  on  the  white  sea  strand, 
Waving  his  armed  hand,  30 

Saw  we  old  Hildebrand, 

With  twenty  horsemen, 


9°  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

"  Then  launched  they  to  the  blast, 
Bent  like  a  reed  each  mast, 
Yet  we  were  gaining  fast, 

When  the  wind  failed  us ; 

And  with  a  sudden  flaw  5 

Came  round  the  gusty  Skaw, 
So  that  our  foe  we  saw 

Laugh  as  he  hailed  us. 

"  And  as  to  catch  the  gale 

Round  veered  the  flapping  sail,  I0 

1  Death  ! '  was  the  helmsman's  hail, 

'  Death  without  quarter  ! ' 
Midships  with  iron  keel 
Struck  we  her  ribs  of  steel ; 
Down  her  black  hulk  did  reel  15 

Through  the  black  water  ! 

"  As  with  his  wings  aslant, 
Sails  the  fierce  cormorant, 
Seeking  some  rocky  haunt, 

With  his  prey  laden,  20 

So  toward  the  open  main, 
Beating  to  sea  again, 
Through  the  wild  hurricane, 

Bore  I  the  maiden. 

"  Three  weeks  we  westward  bore,  25 

And  when  the  storm  was  o'er, 
Cloudlike  we  saw  the  shore 

Stretching  to  leeward ; 
There  for  my  lady's  bower 

Built  I  the  lofty  tower,  30 

Which,  to  this  very  hour, 

Stands  looking  seaward. 


LONGFELLOW  91 

"  There  lived  we  many  years ; 
Time  dried  the  maiden's  tears; 
She  had  forgot  her  fears, 

She  was  a  mother ; 

Death  closed  her  mild  blue  eyes;  5 

Under  that  tower  she  lies ; 
Ne'er  shall  the  sun  arise 

On  such  another. 

"  Still  grew  my  bosom  then, 

Still  as  a  stagnant  fen  !  20 

Hateful  to  me  were  men, 

The  sunlight  hateful ! 
In  the  vast  forest  here, 
Clad  in  my  warlike  gear, 
Fell  I  upon  my  spear,  ^ 

Oh,  death  was  grateful ! 

"  Thus,  seamed  with  many  scars, 
Bursting  these  prison  bars, 
Up  to  its  native  stars 

My  soul  ascended  !  2t 

There  from  the  flowing  bowl 
Deep  drinks  the  warrior's  soul, 
Skoal!  to  the  Northland  !  skoal /" 

Thus  the  tale  ended. 

THE   CUMBERLAND 

AT  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay,  25 

On  board  of  the  Cumberland,  sloop-of-war ; 
And  at  times  from  the  fortress  across  the  bay 
The  alarum  of  drums  swept  past, 
Or  a  bugle  blast 
From  the  camp  on  the  shore.  30 


92  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

Then  far  away  to  the  south  uprose 

A  little  feather  of  snow-white  smoke, 
And  we  knew  that  the  iron  ship  of  our  foes 
Was  steadily  steering  its  course 
To  try  the  force  5 

Of  our  ribs  of  oak. 

Down  upon  us  heavily  runs, 

Silent  and  sullen,  the  floating  fort ; 
Then  comes  a  puff  of  smoke  from  her  guns, 

And  leaps  the  terrible  death,  10 

With  fiery  breath, 
From  each  open  port. 

We  are  not  idle,  but  send  her  straight 

Defiance  back  in  a  full  broadside  ! 

As  hail  rebounds  from  a  roof  of  slate,  15 

Rebounds  our  heavier  hail 
From  each  iron  scale 
Of  the  monster's  hide. 

"  Strike  your  flag  !  "  the  rebel  cries, 

In  his  arrogant  old  plantation  strain.  20 

"  Never  !  "  our  gallant  Morris  replies  ; 
"  It  is  better  to  sink  than  to  yield  ! " 
And  the  whole  air  pealed 
With  the  cheers  of  our  men. 

Then,  like  a  kraken  huge  and  black,  25 

She  crushed  our  ribs  in  her  iron  grasp  ! 
Down  went  the  Cumberland  all  a  wrack, 
With  a  sudden  shudder  of  death, 
And  the  cannon's  breath 
For  her  dying  gasp.  30 

Next  morn,  as  the  sun  rose  over  the  bay, 
Still  floated  our  flag  at  the  mainmast  head. 


LONGFELLOW  93 

Lord,  how  beautiful  was  Thy  day  ! 
Every  waft  of  the  air 
Was  a  whisper  of  prayer, 
Or  a  dirge  for  the  dead. 

Ho  !  brave  hearts  that  went  down  in  the  seas  !  5 

Ye  are  at  peace  in  the  troubled  stream ; 
Ho  !  brave  land  !  with  hearts  like  these, 
Thy  flag,  that  is  rent  in  twain, 
Shall  be  one  again, 
And  without  a  seam  !  10 

THE   WRECK   OF  THE   HESPERUS 

IT  was  the  schooner  Hesperus, 

That  sailed  the  wintry  sea ; 
And  the  skipper  had  taken  his  little  daughter, 

To  bear  him  company. 

Blue  were  her  eyes  as  the  fairy-flax,  J5 

Her  cheeks  like  the  dawn  of  day, 
And  her  bosom  white  as  the  hawthorn  buds, 

That  ope  in  the  month  of  May. 

The  skipper  he  stood  beside  the  helm, 

His  pipe  was  in  his  mouth,  20 

And  he  watched  how  the  veering  flaw  did  blow 

The  smoke  now  West,  now  South. 

Then  up  and  spake  an  old  sailor, 

Had  sailed  to  the  Spanish  Main, 
"  I  pray  thee,  put  into  yonder  port,  25 

For  I  fear  a  hurricane. 

"  Last  night,  the  moon  had  a  golden  ring, 
And  to-night  no  moon  we  see  !  " 


94  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

The  skipper,  he  blew  a  whiff  from  his  pipe, 
And  a  scornful  laugh  laughed  he. 

Colder  and  colder  blew  the  wind, 

A  gale  from  the  Northeast, 
The  snow  fell  hissing  in  the  brine,  5 

And  the  billows  frothed  like  yeast. 

Down  came  the  storm,  and  smote  amain 

The  vessel  in  its  strength  ; 
She  shuddered  and  paused,  like  a  frighted  steed, 

Then  leaped  her  cable's  length.  10 

"  Come  hither  !  come  hither  !  my  little  daughter, 

And  do  not  tremble  so  ; 
For  I  can  weather  the  roughest  gale 

That  ever  wind  did  blow." 

He  wrapped  her  warm  in  his  seaman's  coat  15 

Against  the  stinging  blast ; 
He  cut  a  rope  from  a  broken  spar, 

And  bound  her  to  the  mast. 

"  O  father  !  I  hear  the  church  bells  ring, 

Oh,  say,  what  may  it  be?  "  20 

"  'Tis  a  fog  bell  on  a  rock-bound  coast !  "  — 
And  he  steered  for  the  open  sea. 

"  O  father  !  I  hear  the  sound  of  guns, 

Oh,  say,  what  may  it  be?  " 
"  Some  ship  in  distress,  that  cannot  live  25 

In  such  an  angry  sea  ! " 

"  O  father  !  I  see  the  gleaming  light, 

Oh,  say,  what  may  it  be?  " 
But  the  father  answered  never  a  word, 

A  frozen  corpse  was  he.  30 


LONGFELLOW  95 

Lashed  to  the  helm,  all  stiff  and  stark, 

With  his  face  turned  to  the  skies, 
The  lantern  gleamed  through  the  gleaming  snow 

On  his  fixed  and  glassy  eyes. 

Then  the  maiden  clasped  her  hands  and  prayed  5 

That  saved  she  might  be  ; 
And  she  thought  of  Christ,  who  stilled  the  wave, 

On  the  Lake  of  Galilee. 

And  fast  through  the  midnight  dark  and  drear, 

Through  the  whistling  sleet  and  snow,  J0 

Like  a  sheeted  ghost,  the  vessel  swept 
Tow'rds  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe. 

And  ever  the  fitful  gusts  between 

A  sound  came  from  the  land  ; 
It  was  the  sound  of  the  trampling  surf  ,5 

On  the  rocks  and  the  hard  sea  sand. 

The  breakers  were  right  beneath  her  bows, 

She  drifted  a  dreary  wreck, 
And  a  whooping  billow  swept  the  crew 

Like  icicles  from  her  deck.  20 

She  struck  where  the  white  and  fleecy  waves 

Looked  soft  as  carded  wool, 
But  the  cruel  rocks,  they  gored  her  side 

Like  the  horns  of  an  angry  bull. 

Her  rattling  shrouds,  all  sheathed  in  ice,  25 

With  the  masts  went  by  the  board ; 
Like  a  vessel  of  glass,  she  strove  and  sank, 

Ho  !  ho  !  the  breakers  roared  ! 


96  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

At  daybreak,  on  the  bleak  sea  beach, 

A  fisherman  stood  aghast, 
To  see  the  form  of  a  maiden  fair, 

Lashed  close  to  a  drifting  mast. 

The  salt  sea  was  frozen  on  her  breast  5 

The  salt  tears  in  her  eyes ; 
And  he  saw  her  hair,  like  the  brown  seaweed, 

On  the  billows  fall  and  rise. 

Such  was  the  wreck  of  the  Hesperus, 

In  the  midnight  and  the  snow  !  10 

Christ  save  us  all  from  a  death  like  this, 

On  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe  ! 

THE   VILLAGE   BLACKSMITH 

UNDER  a  spreading  chestnut  tree 

The  village  smithy  stands ; 
The  smith,  a  mighty  man  is  he,  15 

With  large  and  sinewy  hands ; 
And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms 

Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 

His  hair  is  crisp,  and  black,  and  long, 

His  face  is  like  the  tan  ;  20 

His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat, 
He  earns  whate'er  he  can, 

And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face, 
For  he  owes  not  any  man. 

Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night,  25 

You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow ; 
You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge, 

With  measured  beat  and  slow, 


LpNGFELLOW  97 

Like  a  sexton  ringing  the  village  bell, 
When  the  evening  sun  is  low. 

And  children  coming  home  from  school 

Look  in  at  the  open  door ; 
They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge,  5 

And  hear  the  bellows  roar, 
And  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 

Like  chaff  from  a  threshing  floor. 

He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church, 

And  sits  among  his  boys  ;  10 

He  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preach, 

He  hears  his  daughter's  voice, 
Singing  in  the  village  choir, 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice. 

It  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother's  voice,  15 

Singing  in  Paradise  ! 
He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more, 

How  in  the  grave  she  lies ; 
And  with  his  hard,  rough  hand  he  wipes 

A  tear  out  of  his  eyes.  20 

Toiling,  —  rejoicing,  —  sorrowing, 

Onward  through  life  he  goes  ; 
Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin, 

Each  evening  sees  it  close  ; 
Something  attempted,  something  done,  25 

Has  earned  a  night's  repose. 

Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend, 

For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught ! 
Thus  at  the  flaming  forge  of  life 

Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought ;  30 

Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 

Each  burning  deed  and  thought ! 
LONG'S  AM.  POEMS  —  7 


Q8  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

THE    BRIDGE 

I  STOOD  on  the  bridge  at  midnight, 
As  the  clocks  were  striking  the  hour, 

And  the  moon  rose  o'er  the  city, 
Behind  the  dark  church  tower. 

I  saw  her  bright  reflection  , 

In  the  waters  under  me, 
Like  a  golden  goblet  falling 

And  sinking  into  the  sea. 

And  far  in  the  hazy  distance 

Of  that  lovely  night  in  June,  IC 

The  blaze  of  the  flaming  furnace 

Gleamed  redder  than  the  moon. 

Among  the  long,  black  rafters 

The  wavering  shadows  lay, ' 
And  the  current  that  came  from  the  ocean  15 

Seemed  to  lift  and  bear  them  away ; 

As,  sweeping  and  eddying  through  them, 

Rose  the  belated  tide, 
And,  streaming  into  the  moonlight, 

The  seaweed  floated  wide.  20 

And  like  those  waters  rushing 

Among  the  wooden  piers, ' 
A  flood  of  thoughts  came  o'er  me 

That  filled  my  eyes  with  tears. 

How  often,  oh,  how  often,  25 

In  the  days  that  had  gone  by, 
I  had  stood  on  that  bridge  at  midnight 

And  gazed  on  that  wave  and  sky  ! 


LONGFELLOW  99 

How  often,  oh,  how  often, 

I  had  wished  that  the  ebbing  tide 
Would  bear  me  away  on  its  bosom 

O'er  the  ocean  wild  and  wide. 

For  my  heart  was  hot  and  restless,  5 

And  my  life  was  full  of  care, 
And  the  burden  laid  upon  me 

Seemed  greater  than  I  could  bear. 

But  now  it  has  fallen  from  me, 

It  is  buried  in  the  sea ;  10 

And  only  the  sorrow  of  others 

Throws  its  shadow  over  me. 

Yet  whenever  I  cross  the  river 

On  its  bridge  with  wooden  piers, 
Like  the  odor  of  brine  from  the  ocean  15 

Comes  the  thought  of  other  years. 

And  I  think  how  many  thousands 

Of  care-encumbered  men, 
Each  bearing  his  burden  of  sorrow, 

Have  crossed  the  bridge  since  then.  20 

I  see  the  long  procession 

Still  passing  to  and  fro, 
The  young  heart  hot  and  restless, 

And  the  old  subdued  and  slow  ! 

And  forever  and  forever,  25 

As  long  as  the  river  flows, 
As  long  as  the  heart  has  passions, 

As  long  as  life  has  woes ; 

The  moon  and  its  broken  reflection 

And  its  shadows,  shall  appear,  30 

As  the  symbol  of  love  in  heaven,  / 

And  its  wavering  image  here. 


IOO  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

THE   DAY   IS   DONE 

THE  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 
Falls  from  the  wings  of  Night, 

As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. 

I  see  the  lights  of  the  village 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  the  mist, 

And  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me 
That  my  soul  cannot  resist : 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing 
That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 

And  resembles  sorrow  only 
As  the  mist  resembles  rain. 

Come,  read  to  me  some  poem, 
Some  simple  and  heartfelt  lay, 

That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling, 
And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day. 

Not  from  the  grand  old  masters, 
Not  from  the  bards  sublime, 

Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 
Through  the  corridors  of  Time. 

For,  like  strains  of  martial  music, 
Their  mighty  thoughts  suggest 

Life's  endless  toil  and  endeavor ; 
And  to-night  I  long  for  rest. 

Read  from  some  humbler  poet, 

Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart, 

As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer, 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start ; 


LONGFELLOW  fOJ 

Who  through  long  days  of  labor, 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 
Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 

Of  wonderful  melodies. 

Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet  5 

The  restless  pulse  of  care, 
And  come  like  the  benediction 

That  follows  after  prayer. 

Then  read  from  the  treasured  volume 

The  poem  of  thy  choice,  10 

And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 
The  beauty  of  thy  voice. 

And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music, 

And  the  cares  that  infest  the  day 
Shall  fold  their  tents  like  the  Arabs,  15 

And  as  silently  steal  away. 

MY   LOST   YOUTH 

OFTEN  I  think  of  the  beautiful  town 

That  is  seated  by  the  sea; 
Often  in  thought  go  up  and  down 

The  pleasant  streets  of  that  dear  old  town,  20 

And  my  youth  comes  back  to  me. 
And  a  verse  of  a  Lapland  song 
Is  haunting  my  memory  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts."     25 

I  can  see  the  shadowy  lines  of  its  trees, 

And  catch,  in  sudden  gleams, 
The  sheen  of  the  far-surrounding  seas, 
And  islands  that  were  the  Hesperides 

Of  all  my  boyish  dreams.  30 


Ml'DDLE   PERIOD 

And  the  burden  of  that  old  song, 
It  murmurs  and  whispers  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  black  wharves  and  the  slips,  5 

And  the  sea-tides  tossing  free  ; 
And  Spanish  sailors  with  bearded  lips, 
And  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships, 
And  the  magic  of  the  sea. 

And  the  voice  of  that  wayward  song  10 

Is  singing  and  saying  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  bulwarks  by  the  shore, 

And  the  fort  upon  the  hill ;  15 

The  sunrise  gun,  with  its  hollow  roar, 
The  drum  beat  repeated  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  the  bugle  wild  and  shrill. 
And  the  music  of  that  old  song 
Throbs  in  my  memory  still :  20 

"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  sea  fight  far  away, 
How  it  thundered  o'er  the  tide  ! 

And  the  dead  captains  as  they  lay  25 

In  their  graves,  o'erlooking  the  tranquil  bay 
Where  they  in  battle  died. 

And  the  sound  of  that  mournful  song 
Goes'  through  me  with  a  thrill : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will,  3° 

And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 


LONGFELLOW  I 03 

I  can  see  the  breezy  dome  of  groves, 
The  shadows  of  Deering's  Woods  ; 
And  the  friendships  old  and  the  early  loves 
Come  back  with  a  Sabbath  sound,  as  of  doves 

In  quiet  neighborhoods.  5 

And  the  verse  of  that  sweet  old  song, 
It  nutters  and  murmurs  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  gleams  and  glooms  that  dart  10 

Across  the  schoolboy's  brain ; 
The  song  and  the  silence  in  the  heart, 
That  in  part  are  prophecies,  and  in  part 
Are  longings  wild  and  vain. 

And  the  voice  of  that  fitful  song  15 

Sings  on,  and  is  never  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

There  are  things  of  which  I  may  not  speak ; 

There  are  dreams  that  cannot  die  ;  20 

There  are  thoughts  that  make  the  strong  heart  weak, 
And  bring  a  pallor  into  the  cheek,t 
And  a  mist  before  the  eye. 

And  the  words  of  that  fatal  song 
Come  over  me  like  a  chill :  25 

"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

Strange  to  me  now  are  the  forms  I  meet 

When  I  visit  the  dear  old  town ; 

But  the  native  air  is  pure  and  sweet,  30 

And  the  trees  that  o'ershadow  each  well-known  street, 

As  they  balance  up  and  down, 


104  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

Are  singing  the  beautiful  song, 
Are  sighing  and  whispering  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

And  Deering's  Woods  are  fresh  and  fair,  5 

And  with  joy  that  is  almost  pain 
My  heart  goes  back  to  wander  there, 
And  among  the  dreams  of  the  days  that  were, 
I  find  my  lost  youth  again. 

And  the  strange  and  beautiful  song,  I0 

The  groves  are  repeating  it  still  : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

THE    POET   AND    HIS   SONGS 

As  the  birds  come  in  Spring, 

We  know  not  from  where ;  15 

As  the  stars  come  at  evening 

From  depths  of  the  air ; 

As  the  rain  comes  from  the  cloud, 
And  the  brook  from  the  ground  ; 

As  suddenly,  low  or  loud,  20 

Out  of  silence  a  sound  ; 

As  the  grape  comes  to  the  vine, 

The  fruit  to  the  tree ; 
As  the  wind  comes  to  the  pine, 

And  the  tide  to  the  sea ;  25 

As  come  the  white  sails  of  ships 
O'er  the  ocean's  verge  ; 


LONGFELLOW  10$ 

As  comes  the  smile  to  the  lips, 
The  foam  to  the  surge ; 

So  come  to  the  Poet  his  songs, 

All  hitherward  blown 
From  the  misty  realm  that  belongs  5 

To  the  vast  unknown. 

His,  and  not  his,  are  the  lays 

He  sings  ;  and  their  fame 
Is  his,  and  not  his  ;  and  the  praise 

And  the  pride  of  a  name.  10 

For  voices  pursue  him  by  day 

And  haunt  him  by  night, 
And  he  listens  and  needs  must  obey, 

When  the  Angel  says,  "  Write  !  " 


NATURE 

As  a  fond  mother,  when  the  day  is  o'er,  15 

Leads  by  the  hand  her  little  child  to  bed, 

Half  willing,  half  reluctant  to  be  led, 

And  leave  his  broken  playthings  on  the  floor, 

Still  gazing  at  them  through  the  open  door, 

Nor  wholly  reassured  and  comforted  20 

By  promises  of  others  in  their  stead, 

Which,  though  more  splendid,  may  not  please  him  more  ; 

So  Nature  deals  with  us,  and  takes  away 

Our  playthings  one  by  one,  and  by  the  hand 

Leads  us  to  rest  so  gently,  that  we  go  25 

Scarce  knowing  if  we  wish  to  go  or  stay, 

Being  too  full  of  sleep  to  understand 

How  far  the  unknown  transcends  the  what  we  know. 


IO6  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

HYMN   TO   THE    NIGHT 

I  HEARD  the  trailing  garments  of  the  Night 

Sweep  through  her  marble  halls  ! 
I  saw  her  sable  skirts  all  fringed  with  light 

From  the  celestial  walls  ! 

I  felt  her  presence,  by  its  spell  of  might,  5 

Stoop  o'er  me  from  above  ; 
The  calm,  majestic  presence  of  the  Night, 

As  of  the  one  I  love. 

I  heard  the  sounds  of  sorrow  and  delight, 

The  manifold,  soft  chimes,  10 

That  fill  the  haunted  chambers  of  the  Night, 
Like  some  old  poet's  rhymes. 

From  the  cool  cisterns  of  the  midnight  air 

My  spirit  drank  repose  ; 
The  fountain  of  perpetual  peace  flows  there,  —  15 

From  those  deep  cisterns  flows. 

O  holy  Night  !  from  thee  I  learn  to  bear 

What  man  has  borne  before  ! 
Thou  layest  thy  finger  on  the  lips  of  Care, 

And  they  complain  no  more.  20 

Peace  !  Peace  !  Orestes-like  I  breathe  this  prayer  ! 

Descend  with  broad-winged  flight, 
The  welcome,  the  thrice-prayed  for,  the  most  fair, 

The  best-beloved  Night ! 

IN  THE    CHURCHYARD    AT  TARRYTOWN 

HERE  lies  the  gentle  humorist,  who  died  25 

In  the  bright  Indian  Summer  of  his  fame  ! 
A  simple  stone,  with  but  a  date  and  name, 
Marks  his  secluded  resting-place  beside 


LONGFELLOW  IO/ 

The  river  that  he  loved  and  glorified. 
Here  in  the  autumn  of  his  days  he  came, 
But  the  dry  leaves  of  life  were  all  aflame 
With  tints  that  brightened  and  were  multiplied. 

How  sweet  a  life  was  his  ;  how  sweet  a  death  !  5 

Living,  to  wing  with  mirth  the  weary  hours, 
Or  with  romantic  tales  the  heart  to  cheer ; 

Dying,  to  leave  a  memory  like  a  breath 

Of  summer's  fall  of  sunshine  and  of  showers, 

A  grief  and  gladness  in  the  atmosphere.  10 

THE    REPUBLIC       / 

THOU,  too,  sail  on,  O  Ship  of  State  ! 

Sail  on,  O  UNION,  strong  and  great ! 

Humanity  with  all  its  fears, 

With  all  the  hopes  of  future  years, 

Is  hanging  breathless  on  thy  fate  !  15 

We  know  what  Master  laid  thy  keel, 

What  Workmen  wrought  thy  ribs  of  steel, 

Who  made  each  mast,  and  sail,  and  rope, 

What  anvils  rang,  what  hammers  beat, 

In  what  a  forge  and  what  a  heat  20 

Were  shaped  the  anchors  of  thy  hope  ! 

Fear  not  each  sudden  sound  and  shock, 

'Tis  of  the  wave  and  not  the  rock ; 

'Tis  but  the  flapping  of  the  sail, 

And  not  a  rent  made  by  the  gale  !  25 

In  spite  of  rock  and  tempest's  roar, 

In  spite  of  false  lights  on  the  shore, 

Sail  on,  nor  fear  to  breast  the  sea  ! 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  are  all  with  thee, 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  our  prayers,  our  tears,  30 

Our  faith  triumphant  o'er  our  fears, 

Are  all  with  thee,  —  are  all  with  thee  ! 


IO8  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

DAYBREAK 

A  WIND  came  up  out  of  the  sea, 

And  said,  "  O  mists,  make  room  for  me." 

It  hailed  the  ships,  and  cried,  "  Sail  on, 
Ye  mariners,  the  night  is  gone." 

And  hurried  landward  far  away,  5 

Crying,  "Awake  !  it  is  the  day." 

It  said  unto  the  forest,  "  Shout ! 
Hang  all  your  leafy  banners  out ! " 

It  touched  the  wood  bird's  folded  wing, 

And  said,  "  O  bird,  awake  and  sing."  10 

And  o'er  the  farms,  "  O  chanticleer, 
Your  clarion  blow ;  the  day  is  near." 

It  whispered  to  the  fields  of  corn, 

"  Bow  down,  and  hail  the  coming  mom." 

It  shouted  through  the  belfry  tower,  15 

"  Awake,  O  bell  !  proclaim  the  hour." 

It  crossed  the  churchyard  with  a  sigh, 
And  said,  "  Not  yet !  in  quiet  lie." 

JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 

1807-1892 

THE  life  of  Whittier  differed  in  many  respects  from  the  lives  of  the 
other  men  most  prominent  in  American  letters.  He  was  a  Quaker  by 
birth  and  breeding,  he  did  not  come  of  a  noteworthy  family,  he  was 
literally  a  barefoot  boy,  and  he  was  not  college  bred.  There  are  many 
resemblances  between  his  life  and  that  of  Robert  Burns ;  and  it  was 
from  Burns  that  he  got  his  earliest  poetic  impulse.  Both  were  ardent 


WHITTIER 

lovers  of  nature,  and  both  sang  songs  of  fervent  patriotism.  They  also 
pictured  with  loving  minuteness  the  life  of  the  lowly. 

Whittier  was  born  on  a  farm  near  Haverhill,  in  Massachusetts.  He 
went  to  the  district  school  in  winter,  and  worked  on  the  farm  in  summer. 
His  father's  library  contained  few  books,  but  a  copy  of  B>trwns>s  poems 
fell  into  the  boy's  hands,  and  straightway  rhymes  began  to  run  through 
his  head.  When  he  was  seventeen,  some  of  his  verses  were  sent  by  his 
sister  to  a  newspaper,  and  they  were  published  in  the  "Poet's  Corner." 
Whittier  was  working  with  his  father  in  the  field  when  the  postman 
on  horseback  threw  him  the  paper  containing  his  poem.  "His  heart 
stood  still  a  moment  when  he  saw  his  own  verses,"  says  a  writer. 
"  Such  a  delight  as  his  comes  only  once  in  the  lifetime  of  any  aspirant 
to  literary  fame.  His  father  at  last  called  to  him  to  put  up  the  paper 
and  keep  at  work."  Two  years  later  an  academy  was  started  in  Haver- 
hill,  and  Whittier  studied  there  two  terms,  supporting  himself  by  book 
keeping,  and  by  working  at  a  trade  which  he  had  learned,  —  that  of 
making  slippers.  For  the  next  several  years  he  was  engaged  in  jour 
nalism—first  in  Boston,  and  later  at  Hartford  and  at  Haverhill.  In 
his  home  town  he  became  a  man  of  influence  in  politics.  He  was  an 
organizer  and  a  campaign  manager  of  no  ordinary  ability,  but  his 
methods  were  always  clean.  He  might  have  been  elected  to  Congress 
if  he  had  been  willing  to  keep  in  the  background  his  antislavery 
views,  which  were  then  unpopular.  But  he  chose  to  cast  personal 
preferment  aside,  and  to  throw  himself  into  a  cause  which  appealed 
strongly  to  his  humanitarian  instincts. 

In  1838  his  most  important  newspaper  work  was  undertaken  when  he 
went  to  Philadelphia  to  edit  the  Pennsylvania  freeman.  Through 
the  columns  of  this  paper  he  struck  such  hard  blows  at  slavery  and 
at  the  upholders  of  slavery  that  the  printing  office  was  mobbed  and 
burned. 

Whittier  left  Philadelphia  in  1840,  and  settled  down  at  Amesbury, 
not  far  from  his  birth'place,  where  he  lived  quietly  for  half  a  century. 
He  never  married.  The  last  half  of  his  life  was  spent  mainly  in  literary 
work.  He  always  adhered  to  his  early  religious  belief,  and  his  un 
blemished  life  was  marked  by  Quakerlike  simplicity  and  serenity.  His 
manners,  though  a  trifle  shy  and  reserved,  were  kindly  and  gentle. 

Whittier's  prose  works  may,  from  a  literary  point  of  view,  be  set 
aside  without  lengthy  comment.  His  prose,  like  Milton's,  was  written 
in  the  spirit  of  heated  controversy,  and  it  lacks  the  balance  and  restraint 


I  10  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

which  invariably  accompany  all  permanent  writing.  The  same  may  be 
said  of  much  of  his  antislavery  verse.  It  accomplished  its  purpose  for 
the  time,  but  it  does  not  endure.  His  poem  on  Randolph  of  Roanoke, 
as  an  instance,  has  many  very  noble  stanzas,  but  as  a  poem  it  is  marrea 
by  partisan  spirit,  and  by  the  desire  to  preach  a  sermon  on  the  evils 
of  slavery.  There  are  a  few  poems  of  this  class,  however,  which  have 
literary  qualities  that  lift  them  above  the  mass.  Such  poems  are  The 
Farewell  and  Laits  Deo  I  which  are  included  in  this  collection. 

Whittier's  poems  of  nature  show  a  genuine  love  of  outdoor  things, 
and  are  faithful  pictures  of  New  England  scenery.  The  most  notable 
is  Snow-Bound,  a  delightful  and  satisfying  picture  of  simple  rural  life 
in  New  England.  It  has  picturesqueness  and  warm  human  feeling,  with 
occasional  lines  which  startle  the  imagination. 

As  a  writer  of  ballads  —  perhaps  the  most  popular  form  of  literature 
—  Whittier  takes  high  rank.  Maud  Midler,  Cassandra  Southivick, 
Skipper  Ireson's  Ride,  and  The  Pipes  at  Lncknow  show  him  at  his  best. 
On  account  of  its  rhythmical  swing,  and  because  of  its  dramatic  power, 
Skipper  Ircsorfs  Ride  bids  fair  to  outlive  the  rest.  The  poet's  simple 
and  sincere  piety  shines  out  brightest  in  The  Eternal  Goodness.  Of 
the  personal  poems,  Ichabod  is  by  far  the  strongest ;  it  is  one  of  the 
best  poems  ever  written  on  the  fall  of  greatness.  In  such  poems  as 
The  Eternal  Goodness  and  Ichabod,  Whittier  breaks  away  from  the 
fleeting  and  the  local,  and  makes  that  effective  universal  appeal  which 
belongs  to  all  enduring  literature. 

PROEM 

WRITTEN    TO    INTRODUCE    THE    FIRST    GENERAL    COLLECTION    OF    HIS 

POEMS 

I  LOVE  the  old  melodious  lays 
Which  softly  melt  the  ages  through, 

The  songs  of  Spenser's  golden  days, 

Arcadian  Sidney's  silvery  phrase, 
Sprinkling  our  noon  of  time  with  freshest  morning  dew.          5 

Yet,  vainly  in  my  quiet  hours 
To  breathe  their  marvelous  notes  I  try ; 


WHITTIER 

I  feel  them,  as  the  leaves  and  flowers 
In  silence  feel  the  dewy  showers, 
And  drink  with  glad,  still  lips  the  blessing  of  the  sky. 

The  rigor  of  a  frozen  clime, 
The  harshness  of  an  untaught  ear,  , 

The  jarring  words  of  one  whose  rhyme 

Beat  often  Labor's  hurried  time, 
Or  Duty's  rugged  march  through  storm  and  strife,  are  here. 

Of  mystic  beauty,  dreamy  grace, 
No  rounded  art  the  lack  supplies ;  I 

Unskilled  the  subtle  lines  to  trace, 

Or  softer  shades  of  Nature's  face, 
I  view  her  common  forms  with  unanointed  eyes. 

Nor  mine  the  seerlike  power  to  show 
The  secrets  of  the  heart  and  mind  ;  I5 

To  drop  the  plummet  line  below 

Our  common  world  of  joy  and  woe, 
A  more  intense  despair  or  brighter  hope  to  find. 

Yet  here  at  least  an  earnest  sense 
Of  human  right 'and  weal  is  shown  ;  20 

A  hate  of  tyranny  intense, 

And  hearty  in  its  vehemence, 
As  if  my  brother's  pain  and  sorrow  were  my  own. 

O  Freedom  !  if  to  me  belong 
Nor  mighty  Milton's  gift  divine,  25 

Nor  MarvelPs  wit  and  graceful  song, 

Still  with  a  love  as  deep  and  strong 
As  theirs,  I  lay,  like  them,  my  best  gifts  on  thy  shrine  ! 


112  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

ICHABOD 

So  fallen  !  so  lost !  the  light  withdrawn 

Which  once  he  wore  ! 
The  glory  from  his  gray  hairs  gone 

Forevermore  ! 

Revile  him  not,  the  Tempter  hath  5 

A  snare  for  all ; 
And  pitying  tears,  not  scorn  and  wrath, 

Befit  his  fall ! 

Oh,  dumb  be  passion's  stormy  rage, 

When  he  who  might  10 

Have  lighted  up  and  led  his  age, 
Falls  back  in  night. 

Scorn  !  would  the  angels  laugh,  to  mark 

A  bright  soul  driven, 
Fiend-goaded,  down  the  endless  dark,  15 

From  hope  and  heaven  ! 

Let  not  the  land  once  proud  of  him 

Insult  him  now, 
Nor  brand  with  deeper  shame  his  dim, 

Dishonored  brow.  20 

But  let  its  humbled  sons,  instead, 

From  sea  to  lake, 
A  long  lament,  as  for  the  dead, 

In  sadness  make. 

Of  all  we  loved  and  honored,  naught  25 

Save  power  remains ; 
A  fallen  angel's  pride  of  thought, 

Still  strong  in  chains. 


WHITTIER  !  j  3 

All  else  is  gone ;  from  those  great  eyes 

The  soul  has  fled  : 
When  faith  is  lost,  when  honor  dies, 

The  man  is  dead  ! 


Then,  pay  the  reverence  of  old  days 

To  his  dead  fame  ; 
Walk  backward,  with  averted  gaze, 

And  hide  the  shame  ! 


THE   LOST   OCCASION 

SOME  die  too  late  and  some  too  soon, 

At  early  morning,  heat  of  noon,  I0 

Or  the  chill  evening  twilight.     Thou, 

Whom  the  rich  heavens  did  so  endow 

With  eyes  of  power  and  Jove's  own  brow, 

With  all  the  massive  strength  that  fills 

Thy  home-horizon's  granite  hills,  15 

With  rarest  gifts  of  heart  and  head 

From  manliest  stock  inherited, 

New  England's  stateliest  type  of  man, 

In  port  and  speech  Olympian  : 

Whom  no  one  met,  at  first,  but  took  20 

A  second  awed  and  wondering  look ; 

******** 

Whose  words  in  simplest  homespun  clad, 
The  Saxon  strength  of  Csedmon's  had, 
With  power  reserved  at  need  to  reach 
The  Roman  forum's  loftiest  speech,  25 

Sweet  with  persuasion,  eloquent 
In  passion,  cool  in  argument,  — 
******** 

Thou,  foiled  in  aim  and  hope,  bereaved 
LONG'S  AM.  POEMS  —  8 


MIDDLE   PERIOD 

Of  old  friends,  by  the  new  deceived, 

Too  soon  for  us,  too  soon  for  thee, 

Beside  thy  lonely  Northern  sea, 

Where  long  and  low  the  marsh  lands  spread, 

Laid  wearily  down  thy  august  head.  5 

Thou  shouldst  have  lived  to  feel  below 

Thy  feet  Disunion's  fierce  upthrow, — 

The  late-sprung  mine  that  underlaid 

Thy  sad  concessions  vainly  made. 

Thou  shouldst  have  seen  from  Sumter's  wall  10 

The  star  flag  of  the  Union  fall, 

And  armed  rebellion  pressing  on 

The  broken  lines  of  Washington  ! 

No  stronger  voice  than  thine  had  then 

Called  out  the  utmost  might  of  men,  15 

To  make  the  Union's  charter  free 

And  strengthen  law  by  liberty. 

How  had  that  stern  arbitrament 

To  thy  gray  age  youth's  vigor  lent, 

Shaming  ambition's  paltry  prize  20 

Before  thy  disillusioned  eyes ; 

Breaking  the  spell  about  thee  wound 

Like  the  green  withes  that  Sampson  bound ; 

Redeeming  in  one  effort  grand, 

Thyself  and  thy  imperilled  land  !  25 

Ah,  cruel  fate,  that  closed  to  thee, 

O  sleeper  by  the  Northern  sea, 

The  gates  of  opportunity  ! 

God  fills  the  gaps  of  human  need, 

Each  crisis  brings  its  word  and  deed.  30 

Wise  men  and  strong  we  did  not  lack ; 

But  still,  with  memory  turning  back, 

In  the  dark  days  we  thought  of  thee, 

And  thy  lone  grave  beside  the  sea. 


.WHTTTIER  115 

Above  that  grave  the  east  winds  blow 

And  from  the  marsh  lands  drifting  slow 

The  sea  fog  comes,  with  evermore 

The  wave  wash  of  a  lonely  shore, 

And  sea  bird's  melancholy  cry,  5 

As  Nature  fain  would  typify 

The  sadness  of  a  closing  scene, 

The  loss  of  that  which  should  have  been. 

But,  where  thy  native  mountains  bare 

Their  foreheads  to  diviner  air,  10 

Fit  emblem  of  enduring  fame, 

One  lofty  summit  keeps  thy  name. 

For  thee  the  cosmic  forces  did 

The  rearing  of  that  pyramid, 

The  prescient  ages  shaping  with  15 

Fire,  flood,  and  frost  thy  monolith. 

Sunrise  and  sunset  lay  thereon 

With  hands  of  light  their  benison, 

The  stars  of  midnight  pause  to  set 

Their  jewels  in  its  coronet.  20 

THE    FAREWELL 

OF     A     VIRGINIA     SLAVE     MOTHER     TO     HER     DAUGHTERS     SOLD      INTO 
SOUTHERN     BONDAGE 

GONE,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice  swamp  dank  and  lone. 
Where  the  slave  whip  ceaseless  swings, 
Where  the  noisome  insect  stings, 
Where  the  fever  demon  strews  25 

Poison  with  the  falling  dews, 
Where  the  sickly  sunbeams  glare 
Through  the  hot  and  misty  air ; 

Gone,  gone,  — -  sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice  swamp  dank  and  lone,  30 


Il6  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters  ; 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice  swamp  dank  and  lene. 

There  no  mother's  eye  is  near  them,  5 

There  no  mother's  ear  can  hear  them  ; 

Never,  when  the  torturing  lash 

Seams  their  back  with  many  a  gash, 

Shall  a  mother's  kindness  bless  them, 

Or  a  mother's  arms  caress  them.  10 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice  swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters ; 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone,  15 

To  the  rice  swamp  dank  and  lone. 

O,  when  weary,  sad,  and  slow, 

From  the  fields  at  night  they  go, 

Faint  with  toil,  and  racked  with  pain, 

To  their  cheerless  homes  again,  20 

There  no  brother's  voice  shall  greet  them  ; 

There  no  father's  welcome  meet  them. 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice  swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters ; 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice  swamp  dank  and  lone. 

From  the  tree  whose  shadow  lay 

On  their  childhood's  place  of  play;  3° 

From  the  cool  spring  where  they  drank ; 

Rock,  and  hill,  and  rivulet  bank ; 


WH1TTIER  I  I  7 

From  the  solemn  house  of  prayer, 
And  the  holy  counsels  there ; 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice  swamp  dank  and  lone, 

From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters ;  5 

Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice  swamp  dank  and  lone ; 
Toiling  through  the  weary  day, 

And  at  night  the  spoiler's  prey.  10 

Oh,  that  they  had  earlier  died, 
Sleeping  calmly,  side  by  side, 
Where  the  tyrant's  power  is  o'er, 
And  the  fetter  galls  no  more  ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone,  15 

To  the  rice  swamp  dank  and  lone, 

From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters  ; 

Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice  swamp  dank  and  lone.  20 

By  the  holy  love  He  beareth  ; 
By  the  bruised  reed  He  spareth ; 
Oh,  may  He,  to  whom  alone 
All  their  cruel  wrongs  are  known, 
Still  their  hope  and  refuge  prove,  25 

With  a  more  than  mother's  love. 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice  swamp  dank  and  lone, 

From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters ; 

Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  !  30 


MIDDLE  PERIOD 


LAUS   DEO! 

ON    HEARING   THE     BELLS    RING    ON     THE    PASSAGE    OF'    THE    CONSTITU 
TIONAL    AMENDMENT   ABOLISHING    SLAVERY 

IT  is  done  ! 

Clang  of  bell  and  roar  of  gun 
Send  the  tidings  up  and  down. 

How  the  belfries  rock  and  reel  ! 

How  the  great  guns,  peal  on  peal,  5 

Fling  the  joy  from  town  to  town  ! 


Ring,  O  bells  ! 

Every  stroke  exulting  tells 
Of  the  burial  hour  of  crime. 

Loud  and  long,  that  all  may  hear,  10 

Ring  for  every  listening  ear 
Of  Eternity  and  Time  ! 

Let  us  kneel : 

God's  own  voice  is  in  that  peal, 
And  this  spot  is  holy  ground.  15 

Lord,  forgive  us  !     What  are  we, 

That  our  eyes  this  glory  see, 
That  our  ears  have  heard  the  sound  ! 

For  the  Lord 

On  the  whirlwind  is  abroad  ;  20 

In  the  earthquake  he  has  spoken ; 

He  has  smitten  with  his  thunder 

The  iron  walls  asunder, 
And  the  gates  of  brass  are  broken  ! 

Loud  and  long  25 

Lift  the  old  exulting  song ; 
Sing  with  Miriam  by  the  sea 


WHITTIER  119 

He  has  cast  the  mighty  down ; 
Horse  and  rider  sink  and  drown ; 
"He  hath  triumphed  gloriously  !  " 

Did  we  dare, 

In  our  agony  of  prayer,  5 

Ask  for  more  than  he  has  done? 

When  was  ever  his  right  hand 

Over  my  time  or  land 
Stretched  as  now  beneath  the  sun? 

How  they  pale,  10 

Ancient  myth  and  song  and  tale, 
In  this  wonder  of  our  days, 

When  the  cruel  rod  of  war 

Blossoms  white  with  righteous  law, 
And  the  wrath  of  man  is  praise  !  15 

Blotted  out ! 

All  within  and  all  about 
Shall  a  fresher  life  begin  ; 

Freer  breathe  the  universe 

As  it  rolls  its  heavy  curse  20 

On  the  dead  and  buried  sin  ! 

It  is  done  ! 

In  the  circuit  of  the  sun 
Shall  the  sound  thereof  go  forth. 

It  shall  bid  the  sad  rejoice,  25 

It  shall  give  the  dumb  a  voice, 
It  shall  belt  with  joy  the  earth  ! 

Ring  and  swing, 

Bells  of  joy  !     On  morning's  wing 
Send  the  song  of  praise  abroad  !  30 

With  a  sound  of  broken  chains 

Tell  the  nations  that  He  reigns, 
Who  alone  is  Lord  and  God  1 


120  MIDDLE   PERIOD 


SKIPPER   IRESON'S   RIDE 

OF  all  the  rides  since  the  birth  of  time, 

Told  in  story  or  sung  in  rhyme,  — 

On  Apuleius's  Golden  Ass, 

Or  one-eyed  Calendar's  horse  of  brass, 

Witch  astride  of  a  human  back,  5 

Islam's  prophet  on  Al-Borak,  — 

The  strangest  ride  that  ever  was  sped 

Was  Ireson's,  out  from  Marblehead  ! 

Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 

Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart  10 

By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 

Body  of  turkey,  head  of  owl, 

Wings  adroop  like  a  rained-on  fowl, 

Feathered  and  ruffled  in  every  part, 

Skipper  Ireson  stood  in  the  cart.  15 

Scores  of  women,  old  and  young, 

Strong  of  muscle,  and  glib  of  tongue, 

Pushed  and  pulled  up  the  rocky  lane, 

Shouting  and  singing  the  shrill  refrain : 

"  Here's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt,  20 

Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  !  " 

Wrinkled  scolds  with  hands  on  hips, 

Girls  in  bloom  of  cheek  and  lips, 

Wild-eyed,  free-limbed,  such  as  chase  25 

Bacchus  round  some  antique  vase, 

Brief  of  skirt,  with  ankles  bare, 

Loose  of  kerchief  and  loose  of  hair, 

With  conch  shells  blowing  and  fish  horns'  twang, 

Over  and  over  the  Maenads  sang  :  30 


WHITTIER  121 

"  Here's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  !  " 

Small  pity  for  him  !  —  He  sailed  away 

From  a  leaking  ship  in  Chaleur  Bay,  —  5 

Sailed  away  from  a  sinking  wreck, 

With  his  own  town's  people  on  her  deck  ! 

"  Lay  by  !  lay  by  !  "  they  called  to  him. 

Back  he  answered,  "  Sink  or  swim  ! 

Brag  of  your  catch  of  fish  again  !  "  10 

And  off  he  sailed  through  the  fog  and  rain  ! 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 

Fathoms  deep  in  dark  Chaleur  15 

That  wreck  shall  lie  forevermore. 

Mother  and  sister,  wife  and  maid, 

Looked  from  the  rocks  of  Marblehead 

Over  the  moaning  and  rainy  sea,  — 

Looked  for  the  coming  that  might  not  be  !  20 

What  did  the  winds  and  the  sea  birds  say 

Of  the  cruel  captain  who  sailed  away  ?  — 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 

By  the  women  of  Marblehead.  25 

Through  the  street,  on  either  side, 

Up  flew  windows,  doors  swung  wide  ; 

Sharp-tongued  spinsters,  old  wives  gray, 

Treble  lent  the  fish  horn's  bray. 

Sea-worn  grandsires,  cripple-bound,  30 

Hulks  of  old  sailors  run  aground, 

Shook  head,  and  fist,  and  hat,  and  cane, 

And  cracked  with  curses  the  hoarse  refrain : 


122  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

"  Here's  Flud  Oirsonr  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  ! " 

Sweetly  along  the  Salem  road 

Bloom  of  orchard  and  lilac  showed.  5 

Little  the  wicked  skipper  knew 

Of  the  fields  so  green  and  the  sky  so  blue. 

Riding  there  in  his  sorry  trim, 

Like  an  Indian  idol  glum  and  grim, 

Scarcely  he  seemed  the  sound  to  hear  I0 

Of  voices  shouting,  far  and  near  : 

"  Here's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  !  " 

"  Hear  me,  neighbors  !  "  at  last  he  cried,  —  15 

"  What  to  me  is  this  noisy  ride  ? 

What  is  the  shame  that  clothes  the  skin 

To  the  nameless  horror  that  lives  within? 

Waking  or  sleeping,  I  see  a  wreck, 

And  hear  a  cry  from  a  reeling  deck !  20 

Hate  me  and  curse  me,  —  I  only  dread 

The  hand  of  God  and  the  face  of  the  dead  ! " 
Said  old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 

By  the  women  of  Marblehead  !  25 

Then  the  wife  of  the  skipper  lost  at  sea 

Said,  "  God  has  touched  him  !  why  should  we  ! ' 

Said  an  old  wife  mourning  her  only  son, 

"  Cut  the  rogue's  tether  and  let  him  run  !  " 

So  with  soft  relentings  and  rude  excuse,  30 

Half  scorn,  half  pity,  they  cut  him  loose, 

And  gave  him  a  cloak  to  hide  him  in, 

And  left  him  alone  with  his  shame  and  sin. 


WHITTIER  123 

Poor  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 

THE   BAREFOOT   BOY 

BLESSINGS  on  thee,  little  man, 

Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan  !  5 

With  thy  turned-up  pantaloons, 

And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes ; 

With  thy  red  lip,  redder  still 

Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill • 

With  the  sunshine  on  thy  face,  10 

Through  thy  torn  brim's  jaunty  grace ; 

From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy,  — 

I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy  ! 

Prince  thou  art,  —  the  grown-up  man 

Only  is  republican.  15 

Let  the  million-dollared  ride  ! 

Barefoot,  trudging  at  his  side, 

Thou  hast  more  than  he  can  buy 

In  the  reach  of  ear  and  eye,  — 

Outward  sunshine,  inward  joy  :  20 

Blessings  on  thee,  barefoot  boy  ! 

Oh,  for  boyhood's  painless  play, 

Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  day, 

Health  that  mocks  the  doctor's  rules, 

Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools,  25 

Of  the  wild  bee's  morning  chase, 

Of  the  wild  flower's  time  and  place, 

Flight  of  fowl  and  habitude 

Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood  ; 

How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell,  30 

How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell, 


124  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

And  the  ground  mole  sinks  his  well ; 

How  the  robin  feeds  her  young, 

How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung; 

Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow, 

Where  the  freshest  berries  grow,  c 

Where  the  ground-nut  trails  its  vine, 

Where  the  wood-grape's  clusters  shine ; 

Of  the  black  wasp's  cunning  way, 

Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay, 

And  the  architectural  plans  to 

Of  gray  hornet  artisans  ! 

For,  eschewing  books  and  tasks, 

Nature  answers  all  he  asks ; 

Hand  in  hand  with  her  he  walks, 

Face  to  face  with  her  he  talks,  15 

Part  and  parcel  of  her  joy,  — 

Blessings  on  the  barefoot  boy ! 

Oh,  for  boyhood's  time  of  June, 

Crowding  years  in  one  brief  moon, 

When  all  things  I  heard  or  saw  20 

Me,  their  master,  waited  for. 

I  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees, 

Humming-birds  and  honey-bees ; 

For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played, 

Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade ;  25 

For  my  taste  the  blackberry  cone 

Purpled  over  hedge  and  stone  ; 

Laughed  the  brook  for  rny  delight 

Through  the  day  and  through  the  night,  — 

Whispering  at  the  garden  wall,  30 

Talked  with  me  from  fall  to  fall ; 

Mine  the  sand-rimmed  pickerel  pond, 

Mine  the  walnut  slopes  beyond, 

Mine,  on  bending  orchard  trees, 


WHITTIER  125 

Apples  of  Hesperides  ! 

Still,  as  my  horizon  grew, 

Larger  grew  my  riches  too ; 

All  the  world  I  saw  or  knew 

Seemed  a  complex  Chinese  toy,  5 

Fashioned  for  a  barefoot  boy  ! 

Oh,  for  festal  dainties  spread, 

Like  my  bowl  of  milk  and  bread  \ 

Pewter  spoon  and  bowl  of  wood, 

On  the  door  stone,  gray  and  rude  !  10 

O'er  me,  like  a  regal  tent, 

Cloudy-ribbed,  the  sunset  bent, 

Purple-curtained,  fringed  with  gold, 

Looped  in  many  a  wind-swung  fold ; 

While  for  music  came  the  play  15 

Of  the  pied  frogs'  orchestra ; 

And,  to  light  the  noisy  choir, 

Lit  the  fly  his  lamp  of  fire. 

I  was  monarch  :  pomp  and  joy 

Waited  on  the  barefoot  boy  !  20 

Cheerily,  then,  my  little  man, 

Live  and  laugh,  as  boyhood  can  ! 

Though  the  flinty  slopes  be  hard, 

Stubble-speared  the  new-mown  sward, 

Every  morn  shall  lead  thee  through  25 

Fresh  baptisms  of  the  dew; 

Every  evening  from  thy  feet 

Shall  the  cool  wind  kiss  the  heat : 

All  too  soon  these  feet  must  hide 

In  the  prison  cells  of  pride,  30 

Lose  the  freedom  of  the  sod, 

Like  a  colt's  for  work  be  shod, 

Made  to  tread  the  mills  of  toil, 

Up  and  down  in  ceaseless  moil : 


126  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

Happy  if  their  track  be  found 

Never  on  forbidden  ground  ; 

Happy  if  they  sink  not  in 

Quick  and  treacherous  sands  of  sin. 

Ah  !  that  thou  couldst  know  thy  joy,  5 

Ere  it  passes,  barefoot  boy  ! 

TELLING   THE   BEES 

HERE  is  the  place  ;  right  over  the  hill 

Runs  the  path  I  took ; 
You  can  see  the  gap  in  the  old  wall  still, 

And  the  stepping  stones  in  the  shallow  brook.  10 

There  is  the  house,  with  the  gate  red-barred, 

And  the  poplars  tall ; 
And  the  barn's  brown  length,  and  the  cattle  yard, 

And  the  white  horns  tossing  above  the  wall. 

There  are  the  beehives  ranged  in  the  sun ;  15 

And  down  by  the  brink 
Of  the  brook  are  her  poor  flowers,  weed-o'errun, 

Pansy  and  daffodil,  rose  and  pink. 

A  year  has  gone,  as  the  tortoise  goes, 

Heavy  and  slow  ;  20 

And  the  same  rose  blows,  and  the  same  sun  glows, 

And  the  same  brook  sings  of  a  year  ago. 

There's  the  same  sweet  clover  smell  in  the  breeze ; 

And  the  June  sun  warm 
Tangles  his  wings  of  fire  in  the  trees,  25 

Setting,  as  then,  over  Fernside  farm. 

I  mind  me  how,  with  a  lover's  care, 

From  my  Sunday  coat 
I  brushed  off  the  burs,  and  smoothed  my  hair, 

And  cooled  at  the  brookside  my  brow  and  throat.          30 


WHITTIER  127 

Since  we  parted,  a  month  had  passed,  — 

To  love,  a  year  ; 
Down  through  the  beeches  I  looked  at  last 

On  the  little  red  gate  and  the  well-sweep  near. 

I  can  see  it  all  now,  —  the  slantwise  rain  5 

Of  light  through  the  leaves, 
The  sundown's  blaze  on  her  window-pane, 

The  bloom  of  her  roses  under  the  eaves. 

Just  the  same  as  a  month  before,  — 

The  house  and  the  trees,  10 

The  barn's  brown  gable,  the  vine  by  the  door,  — 

Nothing  changed  but  the  hives  of  bees. 

Before  them,  under  the  garden  wall, 

Forward  and  back, 
Went,  drearily  singing,  the  chore  girl  small,  15 

Draping  each  hive  with  a  shred  of  black. 

Trembling,  I  listened  ;  the  summer  sun 

Had  the  chill  of  snow ; 
For  I  knew  she  was  telling  the  bees  of  one 

Gone  on  the  journey  we  all  must  go  !  20 

Then  I  said  to  myself,  "  My  Mary  weeps 

For  the  dead  to-day  ; 
Haply  her  blind  old  grandsire  sleeps 

The  fret  and  the  pain  of  his  age  away." 

But  her  dog  whined  low  ;  on  the  doorway  sill,  25 

With  his  cane  to  his  chin, 
The  old  man  sat ;  and  the  chore  girl  still 

Sang  to  the  bees  stealing  out  and  in. 

And  the  song  she  was  singing  ever  since 

In  my  ear  sounds  on  :  30 

"  Stay  at  home,  pretty  bees,  fly  not  hence  ! 

Mistress  Mary  is  dead  and  gone  !  " 


128  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

MY   PLAYMATE 

THE  pines  were  dark  on  Ramoth  hill, 
Their  song  was  soft  and  low ; 

The  blossoms  in  the  sweet  May  wind 
Were  falling  like  the  snow. 

The  blossoms  drifted  at  our  feet, 
The  orchard  birds  sang  clear ; 

The  sweetest  and  the  saddest  day 
It  seemed  of  all  the  year. 

For,  more  to  me  than  birds  or  flowers, 
My  playmate  left  her  home, 

And  took  with  her  the  laughing  spring, 
The  music  and  the  bloom. 

She  kissed  the  lips  of  kith  and  kin, 
She  laid  her  hand  in  mine  : 

What  more  could  ask  the  bashful  boy 
Who  fed  her  father's  kine? 

She  left  us  in  the  bloom  of  May  : 
The  constant  years  told  o'er 

Their  seasons  with  as  sweet  May  morns, 
But  she  came  back  no  more. 

I  walk,  with  noiseless  feet,  the  round 

Of  uneventful  years ; 
Still  o'er  and  o'er  I  sow  the  spring 

And  reap  the  autumn  ears. 

She  lives  where  all  the  golden  year 
Her  summer  roses  blow ; 

The  dusky  children  of  the  sun 
Before  her  come  and  go. 


WHITTIER  1 29 

There  haply  with  her  jeweled  hands 

She  smooths  her  silken  gown,  —  * 
No  more  the  homespun  lap  wherein 

I  shook  the  walnuts  down. 

The  wild  grapes  wait  us  by  the  brook,  5 

The  brown  nuts  on  the  hill, 
And  still  the  May-day  flowers  make  sweet 

The  woods  of  Fallymill. 

The  lilies  blossom  in  the  pond, 
.     The  bird  builds  in  the  tree,  10 

The  dark  pines  sing  on  Ramoth  hill 
The  slow  song  of  the  sea. 

I  wonder  if  she  thinks  of  them, 

And  how  the  old  time  seems,  — 
If  ever  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood  15 

Are  sounding  in  her  dreams. 

I  see  her  face,  I  hear  her  voice  : 

Does  she  remember  mine? 
And  what  to  her  is  now  the  boy 

Who  fed  her  father's  kine  ?  20 

What  cares  she  that  the  orioles  build 

For  other  eyes  than  ours, — 
That  other  hands  with  nuts  are  filled, 

And  other  laps  with  flowers? 

O  playmate  in  the  golden  time  !  25 

Our  mossy  seat  is  green, 
Its  fringing  violets  blossom  yet, 

The  old  trees  o'er  it  lean. 
LONG'S  AM.  POEMS  —  9 


MIDDLE   PERIOD 

The  winds  so  sweet  with  birch  and  fern 

*  A  sweeter  memory  blow  ; 
And  there  in  spring  the  veeries  sing 
The  song  of  long  ago. 

And  still  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood  5 

Are  moaning  like  the  sea,  — 
The  moaning  of  the  sea  of  change 

Between  myself  and  thee  ! 

AMY  WENTWORTH 

HER  fingers  shame  the  ivory  keys 

They  dance  so  light  along ;  J° 

The  bloom  upon  her  parted  lips 

Is  sweeter  than  the  song. 

O  perfumed  suitor,  spare  thy  smiles  ! 

Her  thoughts  are  not  of  thee  ; 
She  better  loves  the  salted  wind,  15 

The  voices  of  the  sea. 

'Her  heart  is  like  an  outbound  ship 

That  at  its  anchor  swings  ; 
The  murmur  of  the  stranded  shell 

Is  in  the  song  she  sings. 

She  sings,  and,  smiling,  hears  her  praise, 

But  dreams  the  while  of  one 
Who  watches  from  his  sea-blown  deck 

The  icebergs  in  the  sun. 

She  questions  all  the  winds  that  blow, 

And  every  fog  wreath  dim, 
And  bids  the  sea  birds  flying  north 

Bear  messages  to  him. 


WHITTIER  1 3 1 

She  speeds  them  with  the  thanks  of  men 

He  perilled  life  to  save, 
And  grateful  prayers  like  holy  oil 

To  smooth  for  him  the  wave. 

Brown  Viking  of  the  fishing  smack  !  5 

Fair  toast  of  all  the  town  ! 
The  skipper's  jerkin  ill  beseems 

The  lady's  silken  gown  ! 

But  ne'er  shall  Amy  Wentvvorth  wear 

For  him  the  blush  of  shame  i0 

Who  dares  to  set  his  manly  gifts 

Against  her  ancient  name. 

The  stream  is  brightest  at  its  spring, 

And  blood  is  not  like  wine  ; 
Nor  honored  less  than  he  who  heirs  15 

Is  he  who  founds  a  line. 

Full  lightly  shall  the  prize  be  won, 

If  love  be  fortune's  spur ; 
And  never  maiden  stoops  to  him 

Who  lifts  himself  to  her.  20 

Her  home  is  brave  in  Jaffrey  Street, 

With  stately  stairways  worn 
By  feet  of  old  Colonial  knights 

And  ladies  gentle  born. 

Still  green  about  its  ample  porch  25 

The  English  ivy  twines, 
Trained  back  to  show  in  English  oak 

The  herald's  carven  signs. 


MIDDLE   PERIOD 

And  on  her,  from  the  wainscot  old, 

Ancestral  faces  frown,— 
And  this  has  worn  the  soldier's  sword, 

And  that  the  judge's  gown. 

But,  strong  of  will  and  proud  as  they,  5 

She  walks  the  gallery  floor 
As  if  she  trod  her  sailor's  deck 

By  stormy  Labrador  ! 

The  sweetbrier  blooms  on  Kittery-side, 

And  green  are  Eliot's  bowers ;  10 

Her  garden  is  the  pebbled  beach, 
The  mosses  are  her  flowers. 

She  looks  across  the  harbor  bar 

To  see  the  white  gulls  fly ; 
His  greeting  from  the  Northern  sea  15 

Is  in  their  clanging  cry. 

She  hums  a  song,  and  dreams  that  he, 

As  in  its  romance  old, 
Shall  homeward  ride  with  silken  sails 

And  masts  of  beaten  gold  !  20 

O,  rank  is  good,  and  gold  is  fair, 

And  high  and  low  mate  ill ; 
But  love  has  never  known  a  law 

Beyond  its  own  sweet  will ! 

THE   ETERNAL   GOODNESS 

O  FRIENDS  !  with  whom  my  feet  have  trod  25 

The  quiet  aisles  of  prayer, 
Glad  witness  to  your  zeal  for  God 

And  love  of  man  I  bear. 


WHITTIER  133 

I  trace  your  lines  of  argument ; 

Your  logic  linked  and  strong 
•  I  weigh  as  one  who  dreads  dissent, 

And  fears  a  doubt  as  wrong. 

But  still  my  human  hands  are  weak  5 

To  hold  your  iron  creeds  : 
Against  the  words  ye  bid  me  speak 

My  heart  within  me  pleads. 

Who  fathoms  the  Eternal  Thought? 

Who  talks  of  scheme  and  plan?  10 

The  Lord  is  God  !  He  needeth  not 

The  poor  device  of  man. 

I  walk  with  bare,  hushed  feet  the  ground 

Ye  tread  with  boldness  shod ; 
I  dare  not  fix  with  mete  and  bound  15 

The  love  and  power  of  God. 

Ye  praise  His  justice  ;  even  such 

His  pitying  love  I  deem  : 
Ye  seek  a  king ;  I  fain  would  touch 

The  robe  that  hath  no  seam.  20 

Ye  see  the  curse  which  overbroods 

A  world  of  pain  and  loss  ; 
I  hear  our  Lord's  beatitudes 

And  prayer  upon  the  cross. 

More  than  your  schoolmen  teach,  within  25 

Myself,  alas  !  I  know  : 
Too  dark  ye  cannot  paint  the  sin, 

Too  small  the  merit  show. 


134  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

I  bow  my  forehead  to  the  dust, 

I  veil  mine  eyes  for  shame, 
And  urge,  in  trembling  self-distrust, 

A  prayer  without  a  claim. 

I  see  the  wrong  that  round  me  lies,  5 

I  feel  the  guilt  within ; 
I  hear,  with  groan  and  travail  cries, 

The  world  confess  its  sin. 

Yet,  in  the  maddening  maze  of  things, 

And  tossed  by  storm  and  flood,  10 

To  one  fixed  trust  my  spirit  clings ; 
I  know  that  God  is  good  ! 

Not  mine  to  look  where  cherubim 

And  seraphs  may  not  see. 
But  nothing  can  be  good  in  him  15 

Which  evil  is  in  me. 

The  wrong  that  pains  my  soul  below 

I  dare  not  throne  above, 
I  know  not  of  His  hate,  —  I  know 

His  goodness  and  his  love.  20 

I  dimly  guess  from  blessings  known 

Of  greater  out  of  sight, 
And,  with  the  chastened  Psalmist,  own 

His  judgments  too  are  right. 

I  long  for  household  voices  gone,  25 

For  vanished  smiles  I  long, 
But  God  hath  led  my  dear  ones  on, 

And  He  can  do  no  wrong. 


WIIITTIER  135 

I  know  not  what  the  future  hath 

Of  marvel  or  surprise, 
Assured  alone  that  life  and  death 

His  mercy  underlies. 

And  if  my  heart  and  flesh  are  weak  5 

To  bear  an  untried  pain, 
The  bruised  reed  He  will  not  break, 

But  strengthen  and  sustain. 

No  offering  of  my  own  I  have, 

Nor  works  my  faith  to  prove ;  10 

I  can  but  give  the  gifts  He  gave, 

And  plead  His  love  for  love. 

And  so  beside  the  Silent  Sea 

I  wait  the  muffled  oar ; 
No  harm  from  Him  can  come  to  me  15 

On  ocean  or  on  shore. 

I  know  not  where  His  islands  lift 

Their  fronded  palms  in  air ; 
I  only  know  I  cannot  drift 

Beyond  His  love  and  care.  20 

O  brothers  !  if  my  faith  is  vain, 

If  hopes  like  these  betray, 
Pray  for  me  that  my  feet  may  gain 

The  sure  and  safer  way. 

And  Thou,  O  Lord  !  by  whom  are  seen  25 

Thy  creatures  as  they  be, 
Forgive  me  if  too  close  I  lean 

My  human  heart  on  Thee  ! 


136  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

EDGAR   ALLAN    POE 

1809-1849 

POE  came  from  good  Revolutionary  stock  in  Maryland.  His  father, 
however,  drifted  away  from  the  traditions  of  the  family,  married  an 
'English  actress,  and  went  on  the  stage  himself.  Edgar  Poe  was  born 
in  a  lodging  house  in  Boston,  where  his  parents  were  acting  in  the 
Federal  Street  Theater.  His  father  died  soon  afterwards,  and  left  his 
mother  with  three  children  to  support.  Two  years  after  Edgar's  birth 
she  died  of  pneumonia  in  Richmond,  Virginia,  in  great  poverty  and 
distress,  in  a  room  on  the  cellar  floor  of  a  theatrical  lodging  house. 

Two  of  the  Poe  children  were  cared  for  by  relatives  in  Baltimore, 
while  Edgar  was  adopted  by  John  Allan,  a  well-to-do  tobacco  merchant 
of  Richmond.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Allan  were  childless,  and  the  boy, 
whose  name  was  now  changed  to  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  was  tenderly  cared 
for  and  educated  amid  fortunate  surroundings.  At  school  he  showed 
himself  a  lad  of  quick  parts.  He  not  only  studied  well,  but  he  excelled 
in  athletics,  in  debate,  and  in  the  writing  of  verses.  In  1815  the  Allans 
went  to  England,  taking  their  adopted  son  with  them,  and  putting  him 
to  school  for  a  few  years  in  the  suburbs  of  London.  On  the  whole, 
this  seems  to  have  been  the  happiest  period  of  Poe's  life.  On  his  return 
to  America,  he  entered  the  University  of  Virginia,  where  he  stood  well- 
as  a  scholar.  Here,  however,  he  began  to  show  strongly  that  willful 
and  wayward  spirit  which  did  much  to  mar  the  success  and  happiness 
of  his  later  life.  He  not  only  became  subject  to  fits  of  moocliness,  but 
began  to  drink  to  excess  and  to  gamble  at  cards  beyond  his  means. 
His  adopted  father  refused  to  pay  these  gambling  debts,  and  took  Poe 
from  the  University  and  placed  him  in  his  own  counting-room  in  Rich 
mond.  Proud,  willful,  resentful,  and  impatient  of  restraint,  he  ran  away 
to  Boston  and  enlisted  in  the  regular  army  as  an  artilleryman  under  the 
name  of  Edgar  A.  Perry.  For  nearly  two  years  he  performed  his  duties 
as  a  soldier  so  well  that  he  was  made  sergeant  major. 

On  the  death  of  Mr.  Allan's  wife,  Poe  became  reconciled  with  his 
foster  father,  who  procured  his  release  from  the  army  and  got  him 
an  appointment  as  a  cadet  at  West  Point.  Before  going  to  West  Point 
he  had  already  published  a  volume  of  poems,  and  it  was  probably 
because  of  his  growing  sense  of  literary  power  that  he  became  restless 
at  the  military  academy  and  wished  to  leave.  Mr.  Allan  objected  to  this 


POE  137 

change,  and  Poe  thereupon  broke  enough  rules  to  get  himself  dismissed. 
By  this  time  Mr.  Allan  had  married  again,  and  he  now  washed  his 
hands  of  all  further  responsibility  for  his  adopted  son. 

Poe  was  now,  at  the  age  of  twenty-two,  adrift  in  the  world  alone, 
with  nothing  save  his  own  youth,  ambition,  and  talents.  After  a 
hard  struggle  and  much  privation,  he  turned  his  hand  to  prose  tales. 
One  of  his  stories  won  a  prize  of  a  hundred  dollars,  but  he  could  as 
yet  find  no  publisher  for  a  volume  of  stones.  He  resided  for  a  time  in 
Baltimore  with  his  father's  sister,  Mrs.  Clemm,  where  he  found  a  friend 
in  J.  P.  Kennedy,  the  novelist,  who  got  for  him  the  position  of  assistant 
editor  of  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger  at  Richmond.  To  this 
journal  he  contributed  poems,  stories,  and  critical  articles  of  unusual 
merit,  which  rapidly  brought  the  magazine  into  prominence.  He  now 
married  his  cousin,  Virginia  Clemm,  of  Baltimore,  when  he  was  twenty 
seven  and  she  barely  fourteen.  A  few  months  after  his  marriage  he 
lost  his  position  on  the  Messenger.  Indeed,  this  is  the  unedifying  story 
of  his  life  from  now  on  till  his  death  at  the  age  of  forty.  He  edited  one 
journal  after  another  in  Philadelphia  and  New  York,  but  remained  with 
no  one  long.  The  last  five  years  of  his  life  were  spent  in  New  York, 
where  his  aunt,  Mrs.  Clemm,  supported  the  small  family  for  a  time  by 
taking  boarders.  In  1846  he  moved  into  a  small  cottage  at  Fordham, 
on  the  outskirts  of  New  York  city.  The  next  year  his  wife  died ;  he 
himself  was  also  ill  at  the  time.  Friends  in  New  York  raised  more  than 
one  subscription  among  themselves  to  relieve  the  pressing  necessities 
of  the  unfortunate  couple.  Poe  rallied  for  a  while  after  his  wife's  death, 
and  began  to  write  and  lecture.  It  was  during  this  time  that  he  wrote 
The  Bells  and  Annabel  Lee.  He  also  became  engaged  to  an  old  sweet 
heart,  a  Mrs.  Shelton,  of  Richmond.  A  few  days  before  the  time  set 
for  the  marriage,  however,  he  was  picked  up  in  a  helpless  condition  in 
the  streets  of  Baltimore,  and  taken  to  a  hospital,  where  in  a  few  days  he 
died.  His  remains  were  cared  for  by  relatives,  and  buried  in  the  yard 
of  the  Westminster  Presbyterian  Church. 

What  should  be  said,  in  all  fairness,  in  regard  to  the  life  and  char 
acter  of  Poe  ?  He  differed  very  radically  in  many  ways  from  his  chief 
contemporaries.  Bryant,  Emerson,  Whittier,  Holmes,  Longfellow, 
Lowell,  and  Hawthorne  were  not  only  men  of  unblemished  private  life, 
but  they  were  men  of  balance,  steadiness,  and  self-control.  The  same 
may  also  be  said  of  the  greatest  English  men  of  letters.  As  to  Poe's 
gambling,  that  probably  ended  with  his  student  days.  But  intemper- 


138  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

ance  in  drink  was  undoubtedly  responsible  for  many  of  his  troubles  and 
failures.  His  nervous  organization  was  so  delicate  that  he  was  easily 
stimulated  beyond  self-control.  Further  than  this,  Poe's  private  life  seems 
to  have  been  without  blot.  lie  was  a  devoted  husband,  and  through 
out  his  writings  there  is  not  the  slightest  taint  of  impurity.  That  his 
temper  was  wayward,  and  that  he  was  acutely  sensitive  beyond  most 
men,  is  beyond  doubt  true.  There  is  no  evidence  that  he  was  a  man 
of  deep  religious  feeling,  and  it  is  also  most  likely  that  he  inherited  that 
moral  irresponsibility  which  is  so  often  found  among  player  folk.  That 
he  was  not  grossly  immoral  in  many  ways  was  probably  due  to  his 
inherent  delicacy  and  refinement  —  a  delicacy  and  refinement  which 
showed  itself  in  all  his  literary  work. 

Foe's  literary  work  falls  into  three  divisions  —  literary  criticism, 
prose  tales,  and  poetry.  His  early  criticisms  are  marked  by  fairness, 
penetration,  and  luminous  statement.  During  his  later,  embittered 
years,  however,  he  allowed  his  personal  dislikes  and  jealousies  to  warp 
his  judgment.  He  was  particularly  savage  in  his  attacks  upon  the 
greater  men  of  New  England,  —  attacks  which  called  out  a  resentment 
which  has  not  wholly  died  out.  Even  the  kindly  Emerson  was  moved 
to  speak  sneeringly  of  Poe  as  "  the  jingle  man  "  ;  and  Lowell  said  :  — 

There  comes  Poe  with  his  raven,  like  Barnaby  Rudge, 
Three  fifths  of  him  genius  and  two  fifths  sheer  fudge. 

Poe's  prose  tales  —  of  which  The  Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue,  The 
Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher,  and  The  Gold- Bug  are  good  examples  — 
are  masterpieces  of  skillful  narration.  The  grewsome  and  the  mysteri 
ous  are  the  themes  most  commonly  employed.  Poe  may  be  said  to 
have  invented  the  detective  story.  In  both  his  prose  tales  and  in  his 
poetry  he  has  the  power  of  enthralling  the  imagination.  As  a  writer 
of  short  stories,  he  takes  first  rank  in  American  letters. 

Poe  is  also  a  master  of  metrical  effect  in  verse.  He  possessed  in  a 
supreme  degree  what  Emerson  called  "  magic  of  form.11  He  has  left 
only  a  small  body  of  poetry,  and  this  is  narrow  in  range  and  somewhat 
lacking  in  human  feeling.  He  is  the  poet  of  brooding  melancholy,  of 
decaying  or  vanishing  beauty,  of  unfulfilled  desires  and  shattered  hopes  ; 
but  he  invests  these  subjects  with  such  grace,  charm,  and  imaginative 
brilliancy  that  even  the  coldly  critical  cannot  escape  the  spell.  Other 
poets  have  written  sentimentally  about  fallen  hopes,  but  Poe  has  done 
it  with  such  hypnotic  melody  and  with  such  final  grace  of  phrase  that 


POE  139 

the  mind  is  completely  satisfied.  This  power  to  bewitch  the  imagina 
tion  emanates  from  the  man  himself,  —  it  was  not  borrowed,  nor  has  it 
been  successfully  imitated,  -—  and  it  marks  him  apart  as  a  man  of  crea 
tive  genius.  He  lacks,  it  is  true,  the  range  of  the  very  greatest  poets, 
yet  he  is,  within  his  limits,  a  supreme  artist. 

TO    HELEN 

HELEN,  thy  beauty  is  to  me 

Like  those  Nicaean  barks  of  yore 

That  gently,  o'er  a  perfumed  sea, 
The  weary,  wayworn  wanderer  bore 
To  his  own  native  shore.  5 

On  desperate  seas  long  wont  to  roam, 
Thy  hyacinth  hair,  thy  classic  face, 

Thy  Naiad  airs  have  brought  me  home 
To  the  glory  that  was  Greece 
And  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome.  10 

Lo  !  in  yon  brilliant  window  niche 
How  statue-like  I  see  thee  stand, 

The  agate  lamp  within  thy  hand  ! 
Ah,  Psyche,  from  the  regions  which 
Are  Holy  Land  !  15 

TO    ONE    IN  PARADISE 

THOU  wast  all  that  to  me,  love, 

For  which  my  soul  did  pine : 
A  green  isle  in  the  sea,  love, 

A  fountain  and  a  shrine 
All  wreathed  with  fairy  fruits  and  flowers,  20 

And  all  the  flowers  were  mine. 

Ah,  dream  too  bright  to  last  ! 
Ah,  starry  tfope,  that  didst  arise 


I40  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

But  to  be  overcast  ! 

A  voice  from  out  the  Future  cries, 
"  On  !  on  !  "  —  but  o'er  the  Past 

(Dim  gulf)  my  spirit  hovering  lies 
Mute,  motionless,  aghast. 

For,  alas  !  alas  !  with  me 

The  light  of  Life  is  o'er  ! 

No  more  —  no  more  —  no  more  — 
(Such  language  holds  the  solemn  sea 

To  the  sands  upon  the  shore)  10 

Shall  bloom  the  thunder-blasted  tree, 

Or  the  stricken  eagle  soar. 

And  all  my  clays  are  trances, 

And  all  my  nightly  dreams 
Are  where  thy  gray  eye  glances,  15 

And  where  thy  footstep  gleams  — 
In  what  ethereal  dances, 

By  what  eternal  streams. 


THE    BELLS 


HEAR  the  sledges  with  the  bells, 

Silver  bells  ! 

What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells  ! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night ! 
While  the  stars,  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens,  seem  to  twinkle 
With  a  crystalline  delight ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 


POE  141 

To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically  wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells  — 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 


Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells,  5 

Golden  bells  ! 

What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  foretells  ! 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight ! 

From  the  molten-golden  notes,  10 

And  all  in  tune, 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  while  she  gloats 

On  the  moon  ! 

Oh,  from  out  the  sounding  cells,  15 

What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells  ! 
How  it  swells  ! 
How  it  dwells 

On  the  Future  !  how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels  20 

To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells  — 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells  !  25 

in 

Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells, 

Brazen  bells  ! 

What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbulency  tells  ! 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright !  30 


142  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 

Out  of  tune, 

In  a  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the  fire, 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and  frantic  fire, 
Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
With  a  desperate  desire, 
And  a  resolute  endeavor 
Now  —  now  to  sit  or  never, 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 
Oh,  the  bells,  bells,  bells  ! 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 

Of  Despair  ! 

How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar  ! 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air  ! 
Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows, 
By  the  twanging 
And  the  clanging, 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows ; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling 
And  the  wrangling, 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells,  — 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the  bells, 

Of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells  - 
In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells  ! 


TV 


Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells,  30 

Iron  bells  ! 
What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their  monody  compels  ! 


POE  143 

In  the  silence  of  the  night 
How  we  shiver  with  affright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone  ! 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their'throats  5 

Is  a  groan. 

And  the  people  —  ah,  the  people, 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone, 
And  who  tolling,  tolling,  tolling,  10 

In  that  muffled  monotone, 
Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone  — 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman, 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human,  15 

They  are  Ghouls  : 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls ; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 

Rolls 

A  paean  from  the  bells  ;  20 

And  his  merry  bosom  swells 

With  the  paean  of  the  bells, 
And  he  dances,  and  he  yells : 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme,  25 

To  the  paean  of  the  bells, 

Of  the  bells, 

Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells,  30 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells  - 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells  ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 
In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme,  35 


144  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells  : 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells-  5 

To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 

THE   RAVEN 

ONCE  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered,  weak  and  weary, 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  forgotten  lore,  — 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came  a  tapping, 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my  chamber  door.      10 
"  'Tis  some  visitor,"  I  muttered,  "  tapping  at  my  chamber  door  : 
Only  this  and  nothing  more." 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember  it  was  in  the  bleak  December, 
And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost  upon  the  floor. 
Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow; — vainly  I  had  sought  to  borrow  15 
From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow  —  sorrow  for  the  lost  Lenore, 
For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore  : 
Nameless  here  for  evermore. 

And  the  silken  sad  uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple  curtain 
Thrilled  me  —  filled  me  with  fantastic  terrors  never  felt  before  ;  20 
So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,  I  stood  repeating 
"  'Tis  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber  door, 
Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber  door : 
This  it  is  and  nothing  more." 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger ;  hesitating  then  no  longer,        25 
"  Sir,"  said  I,  "  or  Madam,  truly  your  forgiveness  I  implore ; 
But  the  fact  is  I  was  napping,  and  so  gently  you  came  rapping, 
And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at  my  chamber  door, 
That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you  "  —  here  I  opened  wide  the 

door : — 
Darkness  there  and  nothing  more.  3° 


POE  145 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I  stood  there  wondering, 

fearing, 
Doubting,    dreaming   dreams  no    mortals    ever  dared    to    dream 

before  ; 

But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave  no  token, 
And    the    only   word    there    spoken    was    the    whispered    word 

"  Lenore  ?  " 
This    I    whispered,    and    an    echo    murmured   back    the    word, 

"  Lenore  "  :  5 

Merely  this  and  nothing  more. 

Back  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within  me  burning, 
Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping  somewhat  louder  than  before. 
"  Surely,"  said  I,  "  surely  that  is  something  at  my  window  lattice  ; 
Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is,  and  this  mystery  explore ;         10 
Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment  and  this  mystery  explore  : 
Tis  the  wind  and  nothing  more." 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with  many  a  flirt  and  flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  Raven  of  the  saintly  days  of  yore. 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he ;  not  a  minute  stopped  or  stayed 
he;  15 

But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my  chamber  door, 
Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber  door  : 
Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into  smiling 

By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it  wore,  —  20 

"Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"  I  said,  "art  sure 

no  craven, 

Ghastly  grim  and  ancient  Raven  wandering  from  the  Nightly  shore  : 
Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  Night's  Plutonian  shore  ! " 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

Much  I  marveled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse  so  plainly,  25 
Though  its  answer  little  meaning  —  little  relevancy  bore ; 
LONG'S  AM.  POEMS—  10 


146  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human  being 
Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above  his  chamber  door, 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his  chamber  door, 
With  such  name  as  "  Nevermore." 

But  the  Raven,  sitting  lonely  on  the  placid  bust,  spoke  only  5 

That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word  he  did  outpour. 
Nothing  further  then  he  uttered,  not  a  feather  then  he  fluttered, 
Till  I  scarcely  more  than  muttered,  —  "  Other  friends  have  flown 

before  ; 

On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  Hopes  have  flown  before." 
Then  the  bird  said,  "Nevermore."  10 

Startled  at  the  stillness  broken  by  reply  so  aptly  spoken, 
"  Doubtless,"  said  I,  "  what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock  and  store, 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master  whom  unmerciful  Disaster 
Followed  fast  and  followed  faster,  till  his  songs  one  burden  bore  : 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  Hope  that  melancholy  burden  bore  15 

Of  '  Never  —  nevermore.'  " 

But  the  Raven  still  beguiling  all  my  fancy  into  smiling, 

Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird  and  bust  and 

door ; 

Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself  to  linking 
Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird  of  yore,          20 
What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  ominous  bird  of 

yore 
Meant  in  croaking  "  Nevermore." 

This  1  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syllable  expressing 
To  the  fowl  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burned  into  my  bosom's  core  ; 
This  and  more  I  sat  divining,  with  my  head  at  ease  reclining       25 
On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining  that  the  lamplight  gloated  o'er, 
But  whose  velvet  violet  lining  with  the  lamplight  gloating  o'er 
She  shall  press,  ah,  nevermore  ! 


POE  147 

Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser,  perfumed  from  an  unseen 

censer 

Swung  by  seraphim  whose  foot-falls  tinkled  on  the  tufted  floor. 
"Wretch,"  I  cried,  "thy  God  hath  lent  thee  —  by  these  angels 

he  hath  sent  thee 

Respite  —  respite  and  nepenthe  from  thy  memories  of  Lenore  ! 
Quaff,  oh  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe,  and  forget  this  lost  Lenore  !  "  5 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"  Prophet  !  "  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil  !  prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil ! 
Whether   Tempter   sent,  or   whether   tempest    tossed    thee  here 

ashore, 

Desolate  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert  land  enchanted — 
On  this  home  by  Horror  haunted  —  tell  me  truly,  I  implore  :      10 
Is  there is  there  balm  in  Gilead  ?  —  tell  me  — tell  me,  I  im 
plore  ! " 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"  Prophet !  "  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil  —  prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil ! 
By  that  Heaven  that  bends  above  us,  by  that  God  we  both  adore, 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden  if,  within  the  distant  Aidenn,  15 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore  : 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore  ! " 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"  Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or  fiend  ! "  I  shrieked, 

upstarting  : 

"  Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the  Night's  Plutonian  shore*!  20 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul  hath  spoken  ] 
Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken  !  quit  the  bust  above  my  door  ! 
Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form  from  off  my 

door ! " 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting  25 

On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber  door ; 


148  MIDDLE  PERIOD 

And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that  is  dreaming, 
And   the  lamplight  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his  shadow  on  the 

floor  : 

And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating  on  the  floor 
Shall  be  lifted — nevermore  ! 


THE   HAUNTED   PALACE 

IN  the  greenest  of  our  valleys  5 

By  good  angels  tenanted, 
Once  a  fair  and  stately  palace  — 

Radiant  palace  —  reared  its  head. 
In  the  monarch  Thought's  dominion, 

It  stood  there  ;  10 

Never  seraph  spread  a  pinion 

Over  fabric  half  so  fair. 

Banners  yellow,  glorious,  golden, 

On  its  roof  did  float  and  flow 
(This  —  all  this  —  was  in  the  olden  15 

Time  long  ago), 
And  every  gentle  air  that  dallied, 

In  that  sweet  day, 
Along  the  ramparts  plumed  and  pallid, 

A  winged  odor  went  away.  20 

Wanderers  in  that  happy  valley 

Through  two  luminous  windows  saw 
Spirits  moving  musically, 

To  a  lute's  well-tuned  law, 
Round  about  a  throne  where,  sitting,  25 

Porphyrogene, 
In  state  his  glory  well  befitting, 

The  ruler  of  the  realm  was  seen. 


POE  149 

And  all  with  pearl  and  ruby  glowing 

Was  the  fair  palace  door, 
Through  which  came  flowing,  flowing,  flowing, 

And  sparkling  evermore, 
A  troop  of  Echoes,  whose  sweet  duty  5 

Was  but  to  sing, 
In  voices  of  surpassing  beauty, 

The  wit  and  wisdom  of  their  king. 

But  evil  things,  in  robes  of  sorrow, 

Assailed  the  monarch's  high  estate  ;  10 

(Ah,  let  us  mourn,  for  never  morrow 

Shall  dawn  upon  him  desolate  !) 
And  round  about  his  home  the  glory 

That  blushed  and  bloomed, 
Is  but  a  dim-remembered  story  15 

Of  the  old  time  entombed. 

And  travelers  now  within  that  valley 

Through  the  red-litten  windows  see 
Vast  forms  that  move  fantastically 

To  a  discordant  melody  ;  20 

While,  like  a  ghastly  rapid  river, 

Through  the  pale  door 
A  hideous  throng  rush  out  forever, 

And  laugh — but  smile  no  more. 

THE   CITY   IN    THE   SEA 

Lo  !  Death  has  reared  himself  a  throne  25 

In  a  strange  city  lying  alone 

Far  down  within  the  dim  West, 

Where  the  good  and  the  bad  and  the  worst  and  the  best 

Have  gone  to  their  eternal  rest. 

There  shrines  and  palaces  and  towers  30 

(Time-eaten  towers  that  tremble  not) 


150  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

Resemble  nothing  that  is  ours. 
Around,  by  lifting  winds  forgot, 
Resignedly  beneath  the  sky 
The  melancholy  waters  lie. 

No  rays  from  the  holy  heaven  come  down  5 

On  the  long  night-time  of  that  town  ; 

But  light  from  out  the  lurid  sea 

Streams  up  the  turrets  silently, 

Gleams  up  the  pinnacles  far  and  free  : 

Up  domes,  up  spires,  up  kingly  halls,  10 

Up  fanes,  up  Babylon-like  walls, 

Up  shadowy  long- forgotten  bowers 

Of  sculptured  ivy  and  stone  flowers, 

Up  many  and  many  a  marvelous  shrine 

Whose  wreathed  friezes  intertwine  15 

The  viol,  the  violet,  and  the  vine. 

Resignedly  beneath  the  sky 

The  melancholy  waters  lie. 

So  blend  the  turrets  and  shadows  there 

That  all  seem  pendulous  in  air,  20 

AYhile  from  a  proud  tower  in  the  town 

Death  looks  gigantically  down. 

There  open  fanes  and  gaping  graves 

Yawn  level  with  the  luminous  waves; 

But  not  the  riches  there  that  lie  25 

In  each  idol's  diamond  eye, — 

Not  the  gayly  jeweled  dead, 

Tempt  the  waters  from  their  bed ; 

For  no  ripples  curl,  alas, 

Along  that  wilderness  of  glass  ;  3o 

No  swellings  tell  that  winds  may  be 

Upon  some  far-off  happier  sea ; 


POE  1 5 [ 

No  heavings  hint  that  winds  have  been 
On  seas  less  hideously  serene  ! 

But  lo,  a  stir  is  in  the  air  ! 

The  wave  —  there  is  a  movement  there  ! 

As  if  the  towers  had  thrust  aside,  5 

In  slightly  sinking,  the  dull  tide ; 

As  if  their  tops  had  feebly  given 

A  void  within  the  filmy  Heaven  ! 

The  waves  have  now  a  redder  glow, 

The  hours  are  breathing  faint  and  low ;  10 

And  when,  amid  no  earthly  moans, 

Down,  down  that  town  shall  settle  hence, 

Hell,  rising  from  a  thousand  thrones, 

Shall  do  it  reverence. 

ISRAFEL 

And  the  angel  Israfel  whose  heart-strings   are  a  lute,  and  who   has  the 
sweetest  voice  of  all  God's  creatures.  —  KORAN. 

IN  Heaven  a  spirit  doth  dwell  15 

Whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute  j 
None  sing  so  wildly  well 
As  the  angel  Israfel, 
And  the  giddy  stars  (so  legends  tell), 
Ceasing  their  hymns,  attend  the  spell  20 

Of  his  voice,  all  mute. 

Tottering  above 

In  her  highest  noon, 

The  enamoured  moon 
Blushes  with  love,  25 

While,  to  listen,  the  red  levin 

(With  the  rapid  Pleiads,  even, 

Which  were  seven) 

Pauses  in  Heaven. 


152  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

And  .they  say  (the  starry  choir 
And  the  other  listening  things) 

That  Israfeli's  fire 

Is  owing  to  that  lyre 

By  which  he  sits  and  sings,  5 

The  trembling  living  wire 
Of  those  unusual  strings. 

But  the  skies  that  angel  trod, 

Where  deep  thoughts  are  a  duty, 

Where  Love's  a  grown-up  God,  10 

Where  the  Houri  glances  are 
Imbued  with  all  the  beauty 

Which  we  worship  in  a  star. 

Therefore  thou  art  not  wrong, 

Israfeli,  who  despisest  15 

An  unimpassioned  song; 
To  thee  the  laurels  belong, 

Best  bard,  because  the  wisest : 
Merrily  live,  and  long  ! 

The  ecstasies  above  20 

With  thy  burning  measures  suit : 

Thy  grief,  thy  joy,  thy  hate,  thy  love, 
With  the  fervor  of  thy  lute: 
Well  may  the  stars  be  mute  ! 

Yes,  Heaven  is  thine;  but  this  25 

Is  a  world  of  sweets  and  sours  ; 
Our  flowers  are  merely —  flowers, 

And  the  shadow  of  thy  perfect  bliss 
Is  the  sunshine  of  ours. 

If  I  could  dwell  30 

Where  Israfel 

Hath  dwelt,  and  he  where  I, 


POE  153 

He  might  not  sing  so  wildly  well 

A  mortal  melody, 
While  a  bolder  note  than  this  might  swell 

From  my  lyre  within  the  sky. 

THE    SLEEPER 

AT  midnight,  in  the  month  of  June,  5 

I  stand  beneath  the  mystic  moon. 

An  opiate  vapor,  dewy,  dim, 

Exhales  from  out  her  golden  rim, 

And,  softly  dripping,  drop  by  drop, 

Upon  the  quiet  mountain  top,  10 

Steals  drowsily  and  musically 

Into  the  universal  valley. 

The  rosemary  nods  upon  the  grave ; 

The  lily  lolls  upon  the  wave  ; 

Wrapping  the  fog  about  its  breast,  15 

The  ruin  molders  into  rest ; 

Looking  like  Lethe,  see  !  the  lake 

A  conscious  slumber  seems  to  take, 

And  would  not,  for  the  world,  awake. 

All  beauty  sleeps  !  —  and  lo  !  where  lies  20 

Irene,  with  her  destinies  ! 

O  lady  bright  !  can  it  be  right, 

This  window  open  to  the  night? 

The  wanton  airs,  from  the  tree  top, 

Laughingly  through  the  lattice  drop  ;  *.. 

The  bodiless  airs,  a  wizard  rout, 

Flit  through  thy  chamber  in  and  out, 

And  wave  the  curtain  canopy 

So  fitfully,  so  fearfully, 

Above  the  closed  and  fringed  lid  30 

'Neath  which  thy  slumb'ring  soul  lies  hid, 


154  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

That,  o'er  the  floor  and  down  the  wall, 
Like  ghosts  the  shadows  rise  and  fall. 

0  lady  dear,  hast  thou  no  fear? 

Why  and  what  art  thou  dreaming  here? 

Sure  thou  art  come  o'er  far-off  seas,  5 

A  wonder  to  these  garden  trees  ! 

Strange  is  thy  pallor  :   strange  thy  dress  : 

Strange,  above  all,  thy  length  of  tress, 

And  this  all  solemn  silentness  ! 

The  lady  sleeps.     Oh,  may  her  sleep,  10 

Which  is  enduring,  so  be  deep  ! 
Heaven  have  her  in  its  sacred  keep  ! 
This  chamber  changed  for  one  more  holy, 
This  bed  for  one  more  melancholy, 

1  pray  to  God  that  she  may  he  15 
Forever  with  unopened  eye, 

While  the  pale  sheeted  ghosts  go  by. 

My  love,  she  sleeps.     Oh,  may  her  sleep, 

As  it  is  lasting,  so  be  deep  ! 

Soft  ma y  the  worms  about  her  creep  !  20 

Far  in  the  forest,  dim  and  old, 

For  her  may  some  tall  vault  unfold  : 

Some  vault  that  oft  hath  flung  its  black 

And  winged  panels  fluttering  back, 

Triumphant,  o'er  the  crested  palls  25 

Of  her  grand  family  funerals  : 

Some  sepulcher,  remote,  alone, 

Against  whose  portal  she  hath  thrown, 

In  childhood,  many  an  idle  stone  : 

Some  tomb  from  out  whose  sounding  door  30 

She  ne'er  shall  force  an  echo  more, 

Thrilling  to  think,  poor  child  of  sin, 

It  was  the  dead  who  groaned  within  ! 


POE  155 

ULALUME 

THE  skies  they  were  ashen  and  sober ; 

The  leaves  they  were  crisped  and  sear, 

The  leaves  they  were  withering  and  sear ; 
It  was  night  in  the  lonesome  October 

Of  my  most  immemorial  year  ;  5 

It  was  hard  by  the  dim  lake  of  Auber, 

In  the  misty  mid  region  of  Weir  : 
It  was  down  by  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 

In  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 

Here  once,  through  an  alley  Titanic  10 

Of  cypress  I  roamed  with  my  Soul  — 

Of  cypress,  with  Psyche,  my  Soul. 
They  were  days  when  my  heart  was  volcanic 

As  the  scoriae  rivers  that  roll, 

As  the  lavas  that  restlessly  roll  15 

Their  sulphurous  currents  down  Yaanek 

In  the  ultimate  climes  of  the  pole, 
That  groan  as  they  roll  down  Mount  Yaanek 

In  the  realms  of  the  boreal  pole. 

Our  talk  had  been  serious  and  sober,  20 

But  our  thoughts  they  were  palsied  and  sear, 
Our  memories  were  treacherous  and  sear, 

For  we  knew  not  the  month  was  October, 
And  we  marked  not  the  night  of  the  year, 
(Ah,  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year  !)  25 

\Ve  noted  not  the  dim  lake  of  Auber 

(Though  once  we  had  journeyed  down  here), 

Remembered  not  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber 
Nor  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 

And  now,  as  the  night  was  senescent  30 

And  star-dials  pointed  to  morn, 


156  MIDDLE  PERIOD 

As  the  star-dials  hinted  of  morn, 
At  the  end  of  our  path  a  liquescent 

And  nebulous  luster  was  born, 
Out  of  which  a  miraculous  crescent 

Arose  with  a  duplicate  horn,  5 

Astarte's  bediamonded  crescent 

Distinct  with  its  duplicate  horn. 

And  I  said  —  "  She  is  warmer  than  Dian  : 

She  rolls  through  an  ether  of  sighs, 

She  revels  in  a  region  of  sighs  :  10 

She  has  seen  that  the  tears  are  not  dry  on 

These  cheeks,  where  the  worm  never  dies, 
And  has  come  past  the  stars  of  the  Lion 

To  point  us  the  path  to  the  skies, 

To  the  Lethean  peace  of  the  skies  :  15 

Come  up,  in  despite  of  the  Lion, 

To  shine  on  us  with  her  bright  eyes : 
Come  up  through  the  lair  of  the  Lion, 

With  love  in  her  luminous  eyes." 

But  Psyche,  uplifting  the  finger,  20 

Said  —  "  Sadly  this  star  I  mistrust, 

Her  pallor  I  strangely  mistrust  : 
Oh,  hasten  !  —  oh,  let  us  not  linger  ! 

Oh,  fly  !  —  let  us  fly  !• —  for  we  must." 
In  terror  she  spoke,  letting  sink  her  25 

Wings  until  they  trailed  in  the  dust ; 
In  agony  sobbed,  letting  sink  her 

Plumes  till  they  trailed  in  the  dust, 

Till  they  sorrowfully  trailed  in  the  dust. 

I  replied  —  "  This  is  nothing  but  dreaming  :  3° 

Let  us  on  by  this  tremulous  light  ! 

Let  us  bathe  in  this  crystalline  light ! 
Its  sibyllic  splendor  is  beaming 


POE  I57 

With  hope  and  in  beauty  to-night : 

See,  it  nickers  up  the  sky  through  the  night ! 
Ah,  we  safely  may  trust  to  its  gleaming, 

And  be  sure  it  will  lead  us  aright : 
We  safely  may  trust  to  a  gleaming  5 

That  cannot  but  guide  us  aright, 

Since  it  nickers  up  to  Heaven  through  the  night." 

Thus  I  pacified  Psyche  and  kissed  her, 

And  tempted  her  out  of  her  gloom, 

And  conquered  her  scruples  and  gloom  ;  10 

And  we  passed  to  the  end  of  the  vista, 

But  were  stopped  by  the  door  of  a  tomb, 

By  the  door  of  a  legended  tomb  ; 
And  I  said  —  "What  is  written,  sweet  sister, 

On  the  door  of  this  legended  tomb?  "  15 

She  replied  —  "  Ulalume  —  Ulalume  — 

'Tis  the  vault  of  thy  lost  Ulalume  !  " 

Then  my  heart  it  grew  ashen  and  sober 
As  the  leaves  that  were  crisped  and  sear, 
As  the  leaves  that  were  withering  and  sear,  20 

And  I  cried  —  "  It  was  surely  October 
On  this  very  night  of  last  year 
That  I  journeyed  —  I  journeyed  down  here, 
That  I  brought  a  dread  burden  down  here  : 
On  this  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year,  25 

Ah,  what  demon  has  tempted  me  here? 

Well  I  know,  now,  this  dim  lake  of  Auber, 
This  misty  mid  region  of  Weir  : 

Well,  I  know,  now,  this  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 

This  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir."  30 


MIDDLE   PERIOD 

ANNABEL   LEE 

IT  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
That  a  maiden  there  lived  whom  you  may  know 

By  the  name  of  Annabel  Lee  ; 
And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other  thought  5 

Than  to  love  and  be  loved  by  me. 

I  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love, 

I  and  my  Annabel  Lee  ;  10 

With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling  15 

My  beautiful  Annabel  Lee  ; 

So  that  her  highborn  kinsman  came 

And  bore  her  away  from  me, 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulcher 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea.  20 

The  angels,  not  half  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Went  envying  her  and  me  ; 
Yes  !  that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea) 
That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by  night,  25 

Chilling  and  killing  my  Annabel  Lee. 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 
Of  those  who  were  older  than  we, 
Of  many  far  wiser  than  we  ;  * 


HOLMES  159 

And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above, 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee  : 

For  the  moon  never  beams,  without  bringing  me  dreams    5 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee  ; 
And  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes    . 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee  ; 

And  so,  all  the  night-tide,  I  lie  down  by  the  side 

Of  my  darling —  my  darling —  my  life  and  my  bride,       J0 

In  her  sepulcher  there  by  the  sea, 

In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 


OLIVER   WENDELL    HOLMES 

1809-1894 

THE  intellectual  revival  in  New  England  which  made  itself  felt  so 
strongly  in  Emerson  and  Longfellow  had  lost  some  of  its  force  when  it 
reached  Holmes  and  Lowell.  They  felt  its  influence,  but  they  caught 
only  the  ebb  of  the  tide.  This  is  especially  true  of  Holmes.  Then,  too, 
both  of  these  men  were  many  other  things  besides  poets.  For  a  num 
ber  of  years  they  filled  professorships  at  Harvard,  and  their  energies 
and  interests  took  so  many  turns  that  one  is  almost  tempted  to  say 
that  their  lives  are  more  interesting  than  their  poems.  Holmes,  for 
instance,  was  a  physician,  a  poet,  a  prose  writer,  a  witty  talker,  an 
amiable  and  urbane  figure  in  society,  and  a  college  man  of  a  very 
high  type,  who  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  long  life  in  one  of  the  most 
intellectual  cities  of  the  country.  He  represented  Boston,  and  Boston 
ways,  in  a  way  that  no  other  man  of  his  generation  could. 

Holmes  was  born  at  Cambridge,  in  Massachusetts,  under  the  shadow 
of  Harvard  College.  His  father,  the  Rev.  Abiel  Holmes,  a  Connecti 
cut  man  and  a  graduate  of  Yale,  was  minister  of  the  First  Church  in 
Cambridge.  The  poet's  mother  was  of  an  old  Massachusetts  family 
noted  for  its  ability  at  the  bar.  The  boy  was  sent  to  Andover  for  his  early 


MIDDLE   PERIOD 

schooling,  and  later  was  duly  graduated  from  Harvard  in  the  celebrated 
class  of  1829.  In  college  he  was  a  leader  in  the  literary  and  dramatic 
society  known  as  the  Hasty  Pudding  Club,  the  archives  of  which  still 
preserve  some  of  his  unpublished  college  verses.  After  graduation  he 
-turned  to  the  law,  but  soon  gave  it  up  for  medicine.  He  studied  at 
home  and  abroad  for  several  years  in  order  to  get  the  most  thorough 
preparation  possible,  and  finally  took  his  medical  degree  in  the  same 
year  that  he  published  his  first  volume  of  poems.  In  1840  he  married 
Miss  Amelia  Lee  Jackson,  and  settled  clown  in  Boston  for  the  remain 
ing  fifty-four  years  of  his  life.  In  1847  he  was  called  to  the  chair  of 
anatomy  and  physiology  in  the  Harvard  Medical  School,  in  Boston. 
This  chair  he  held  until  his  death,  but  during  many  of  those  years  he 
was  also  active  in  his  profession.  He  wrote  and  published  poems  from 
time  to  time,  but  his  first  important  literary  achievement  was  77/6' 
Autocrat  of  tJie  Breakfast-Table,  a  prose  work  of  remarkable  clever 
ness,  which  began  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  in  1857.  This  effort  placed 
him  at  once  among  the  prominent  men  of  letters  of  his  day.  The 
Autocrat  was  followed  by  two  other  interesting  volumes  of  table-talk, 
The  Poet  at  tJie  Breakfast-Table  and  The  Professor  at  the.  Breakfast- 
Table,  but  these  volumes  have  not  the  freshness  and  sparkle  of  the 
first.  He  wrote  three  novels,  —  Elsie  Venner,  A  Mortal  Antipathy^ 
and  77/6'  Guardian  Angel,  — but  they  add  little  to  his  reputation. 
He  continued  to  write  both  prose  and  verse  for  the  magazines  as  long 
as  he  lived.  When  he  was  an  old  man  in  years,— he  never  grew  old 
in  spirit,  — he  spent  three  months  in  England,  where  he  was  warmly 
received  by  London  letters  and  fashion,  and  honored  with  academic 
degrees. 

Holmes's  last  days  were  as  fortunate  as  they  were  serene.  He  had 
become  a  personage  in  Boston  to  whom  consideration  and  honor  were 
given  without  stint.  Although  he  lived  to  be  eighty-five,  his  faculties 
were  unimpaired  almost  to  the  last.  In  stature  he  was  almost 
diminutive,  but  he  was  always  as  alert  and  active  in  body  as  he  was 
nimble  and  volatile  in  mind.  His  only  son,  who  is  his  namesake,  was 
appointed  a  justice  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States  by 
President  Roosevelt. 

Holmes  was  a  man  of  intellect  rather  than  of  deep  feeling  or  strong 
imagination.  Hence  it  seems  likely  that  The  Autocrat  of  the  Break 
fast-Table  will  live  longer  than  his  poems.  In  early  life  he  wrote  Old 
Ironsides  and  The  Last  Leaf,  and  nothing  that  he  wrote  later  is  per- 


HOLMES  l6l 

haps  so  popular.  Yet  a  handful  of  his  poems  have  found  their  way  into 
all  anthologies,  and  they  show  as  yet  no  signs  of  waning  popularity. 
They  are  marked  by  neatness  of  touch,  intellectual  dexterity,  and  by 
grace  and  refinement  of  sentiment.  But  the  night  of  his  imagination 
was  never  very  high  o*r  very  prolonged.  He  seemed  incapable,  too,  of 
sustaining  any  one  mood  long.  If  he  begins  gravely,  he  is  very  apt  to 
end  in  jest ;  and  when  he  sets  forth  in  a  gay  mood,  he  sometimes  con 
cludes  with  a  sermon.  And  yet  it  is  in  just  this  skillful  blending  of 
the  grave  and  the  gay  —  for  of  such  is  life  —  that  Holmes  finally  appears 
as  a  true  and  unusual  artist.  This  quality  of  his  poetry  shows  itself 
most  clearly  in  his  occasional  verse,  where  the  kindly,  human  side  of 
the  man  shone  out,—  the  friendliness  that  won  for  him  so  many  friends. 
Indeed,  his  poetry  is  still  so  under  the  spell  of  his  great  personal  popu 
larity  that  it  is  not  easy  to  guess  what  may  be  the  opinion  of  later 
generations.  As  a  poet,  it  seems  certain  that  his  rank  is  below  that  of 
his  most  conspicuous  contemporaries  ;  but  in  his  mind  and  character  he 
reflected  so  accurately  the  tone  and  temper  of  Unitarian  Boston  when 
Unitarianism  was  at  its  best,  and  he  gave  expression  to  this  life  with 
such  urbane  humor  and  such  neatness  of  wit,  that  his  position  as  a 
representative  man  of  letters  seems  assured. 

OLD    IRONSIDES 

AYE,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down  ! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high, 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky ; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle  shout,  5 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar ;  — 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more. 

Her  deck,  once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe,  10 

When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood, 
And  waves  were  white  below, 

No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 

Or  know  the  conquered  knee ; 
LONG'S  AM.  POEMS  —  1 1 


1 62  MIDDLE    PERIOD 

The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 
The  eagle  of  the  sea  ! 

O,  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 

Should  sink  beneath  the  wave  ; 
Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 

And  tli ere  should  be  her  grave  ; 
Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail, 
And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, 

The  lightning  and  the  gale  ! 


THE    LAST    LEAF 

I  SAW  him  once  before, 
As  he  passed  by  the  door, 

And  again 

The  pavement  stones  resound, 
As  he  totters  o'er  the  ground  15 

With  his  cane. 

They  say  that  in  his  prime, 
Ere  the  pruning-knife  of  Time 

Cut  him  down, 

Not  a  better  man  was  found  20 

By  the  Crier  on  his  round 

Through  the  town. 

But  now  he  walks  the  streets, 
And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets 

Sad  and  wan,  25 

And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 

"  They  are  gone." 


HOLMES  163 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 

On  the  lips  that  he  has  prest 

In  their  bloom, 

And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year  5 

On  the  tomb.       • 

My  grandmamma  has  said  — 
Poor  old  lady,  she  is  dead 

Long  ago  — 

That  he  had  a  Roman  nose,  10 

And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 

In  the  snow  ; 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin, 
And  it  rests  upon  his  chin 

Like  a  staff,  15 

And  a  crook  is  in  his  back, 
And  a  melancholy  crack 

In  his  laugh. 

I  know  it  is  a  sin 

For  me  to  sit  and  grin  20 

At  him  here  ; 

But  the  old  three-cornered  hat, 
And  the  breeches,  and  all  that, 

Are  so  queer  ! 

And  if  I  should  live  to  be  25 

The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 

In  the  spring, 

Let  them  smile,  as  I  do  now, 
At  the  old  forsaken  bough 

Where  I  cling.  30 


1 64  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

THE   CHAMBERED    NAUTILUS 

THIS  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign, 

Sails  the  unshadowed  main,  — 

The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  Siren  sings,  5 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 
Where  the  cold  sea  maids  rise  to  sun  their  streaming  hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl ; 

Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl  ! 

And  every  chambered  cell,  10 

Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell, 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell, 

Before  thee  lies  revealed,  — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unsealed  ! 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil  15 

That  spread  his  lustrous  coil ; 

Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 
He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new, 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway  through, 

Built  up  its  idle  door,  20 

Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the  old  no  more. 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by  thee, 

Child  of  the  wandering  sea, 

Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn  ! 

From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  born  25 

Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn  ! 

While  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 

Through  the   deep   caves  of  thought   I  hear   a   voice  that 
sings  :  — 


HOLMES  165 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll ! 

Leave  thy  low-vaulted  past ! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast,  5 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 
Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unresting  sea  ! 

THE    LIVING   TEMPLE 

NOT  in  the  world  of  light  alone, 

Where  God  has  built  his  blazing  throne, 

Nor  yet  alone  in  earth  below,  10 

With  belted  seas  that  come  and  go, 

And  endless  isles  of  sunlit  green, 

Is  all  thy  Maker's  glory  seen  : 

Look  in  upon  thy  wondrous  frame,  — 

Eternal  wisdom  still  the  same  !  15 

The  smooth,  soft  air  with  pulselike  waves 

Flows  murmuring  through  its  hidden  caves, 

Whose  streams  of  brightening  purple  rush, 

Fired  with  a  new  and  livelier  blush, 

While  all  their  burden  of  decay  20 

The  ebbing  current  steals  away, 

And  red  with  nature's  flame  they  start 

From  the  warm  fountains  of  the  heart. 

No  rest  that  throbbing  slave  may  ask, 

Forever  quivering  o'er  his  task,  25 

While  far  and  wide  a  crimson  jet 

Leaps  forth  to  fill  the  woven  net 

Which  in  unnumbered  crossing  tides 

The  flood  of  burning  life  divides, 

Then,  kindling  each  decaying  part,  30 

Creeps  back  to  find  the  throbbing  heart. 


166  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

But  warmed  with  that  unchanging  flame 

Behold  the  outward  moving  frame, 

Its  living  marbles  jointed  strong 

With  glistening  band  and  silvery  thong, 

And  linked  to  reason's  guiding  reins  5 

By  myriad  rings  in  trembling  chains, 

Each  graven  with  the  threaded  zone 

Which  claims  it  as  the  master's  own. 

See  how  yon  beam  of  seeming  white 

Is  braided  out  of  seven-hued  light,  •  10 

Yet  in  those  lucid  globes  no  ray 

By  any  chance  shall  break  astray. 

Hark  how  the  rolling  surge  of  sound, 

Arches  and  spirals  circling  round, 

Wakes  the  hushed  spirit  through  thine  ear  15 

With  music  it  is  heaven  to  hear. 

Then  mark  the  cloven  sphere  that  holds 

All  thought  in  its  mysterious  folds  ; 

That  feels  sensation's  faintest  thrill, 

And  flashes  forth  the  sovereign  will ;  20 

Think  on  the  stormy  world  that  dwells 

Locked  in  its  dim  and  clustering  cells  ! 

The  lightning  gleams  of  power  it  sheds 

Along  its  hollow  glassy  threads  ! 

O  Father !  grant  thy  love  divine  25 

To  make  these  mystic  temples  thine  ! 

When  wasting  age  and  wearying  strife 

Have  sapped  the  leaning  walls  of  life, 

When  darkness  gathers  over  all, 

And  the  last  tottering  pillars  fall  30 

Take  the  poor  dust  thy  mercy  warms, 

And  mould  it  into  heavenly  form/-  ' 


HOLMES  167 

NEARING   THE   SNOW-LINE 

SLOW  toiling  upward  from  the  misty  vale, 

I  leave  the  bright  enameled  zones  below ; 

No  more  for  me  their  beauteous  bloom  shall  glow, 
Their  lingering  sweetness  load  the  morning  gale ; 
Few  are  the  slender  flowerets,  scentless,  pale,  5 

That  on  their  ice-clad  stems  all  trembling  blow 

Along  the  margin  of  unmelting  snow  ; 
Yet  with  unsaddened  voice  thy  verge  I  hail, 

White  realm  of  peace  above  the  flowering  line ; 
Welcome  thy  frozen  domes,  thy  rocky  spires  !  10 

O'er  thee  undimmed  the  moon-girt  planets  shine, 
On  thy  majestic  altars  fade  the  fires 
That  filled  the  air  with  smoke  of  vain  desires, 

And  all  the  unclouded  blue  of  heaven  is  thine  ! 

THE   BOYS 

1859 

HAS  there  any  old  fellow  got  mixed  with  the  boys?  '  15 

If  there  has,  take  him  out,  without  making  a  "noise. 
Hang  the  Almanac's  cheat  and  the  Catalogue's  spite  ! 
Old  time  is  a  liar  !     We're  twenty  to-night  ! 

We're  twenty  !     We're  twenty  !     Who  says  we  are  more? 
He's  tipsy,  —  young  jackanapes  !  —  show  him  the  door  !  20 

"  Gray  temples  at  twenty?  "  —  Yes  !  white  if  we  please  ! 
Where  the  snow-flakes  fall  thickest  there's  nothing  can  freeze  ! 

Was  it  snowing  I  spoke  of  ?     Excuse  the  mistake  ! 

Look  close,  —  you  will  not  see  a  sign  of  a  flake  ! 

We  want  some  new  garlands  for  those  we  have  shed,  —  25 

And  these  are  white  roses  in  place  of  the  red. 

We've  a  trick,  we  young  fellows,  you  may  have  been  told, 
Of  talking  (in  public)  as  if  we  were  old  :  — 


1 68  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

That  boy  we  call  "  Doctor,"  and  this  we  call  "Judge  " ; 
It's  a  neat  little  fiction,  —  of  course  it's  all  fudge. 

That  fellow's  the  "  Speaker,"  —  the  one  on  the  right ; 

"  Mr.  Mayor,"  my  young  one,  how  are  you  to-night? 

That's  our  "  Member  of  Congress,"  we  say  when  we  chaff;  5 

There's  the  "Reverend"  what's  his  name?  —  don't  make  me  laugh. 

That  boy  with  the  grave  mathematical  look 

Made  believe  he  had  written  a  wonderful  book, 

And  the  ROYAL  SOCIETY  thought  it  was  true  ! 

So  they  chose  him  right  in;  a  good  joke  it  was,  too  !  10 

There's  a  boy,  we  pretend,  with  a  three-decker  brain, 

That  could  harness  a  team  with  a  logical  chain  ; 

When  he  spoke  for  our  manhood  in  syllabled  fire, 

We  called  him  "The  Justice,"  but  now  he's  "The  Squire." 

And  there's  a  nice  youngster  of  excellent  pith,  —  15 

Fate  tried  to  conceal  him  by  naming  him  Smith  ; 
But  he  shouted  a  song  for  the  brave  and  the  free,  — 
Just  read  on  his  medal,  "  My  country,"  "  of  thee  !  " 

You  hear  that  boy  laughing? —  You  think  he's  all  fun  ; 

But  the  angels  laugh,  too,  at  the  good  he  has  done  ;  20 

The  children  laugh  loud  as  they  troop  to  his  call, 

And  the  poor  man  that  knows  him  laughs  loudest  of  all ! 

Yes,  we're  boys,  —  always  playing  with  tongue  or  with  pen,  — 
And  I  sometime  have  asked,  —  Shall  we  ever  be  men? 
Shall  we  always  be  youthful,  and  laughing,  and  gay,  25 

Till  the  last  dear  companion  drops  smiling  away? 

Then  here's  to  our  boyhood,  its  gold  and  its  gray  ! 

The  stars  of  its  winter,  the  dews  of  its  May  ! 

And  when  we  have  done  with  our  life-lasting  toys, 

Dear  leather,  take  care  of  thy  children,  THE  BOYS  !  30 


LOWELL 


169 


JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL 

1819-1891 

LOWELL  has  been  fitly  called  the  most  representative  American  man 
of  letters.  He  was  more  sensitive  to  the  life  that  was  throbbing  about 
him  than  any  of  his  contemporaries,  and  he  reflected  this  life  more  fully 
in  his  writings.  When  he  was  an  undergraduate  at  Harvard,  Emerson 
was  rising  into  fame,  and  Lowell  in  his  class  poem  satirized  him  and 
the  other  reformers  of  the  clay ;  and  yet  Lowell  later  on  was  to  come 
into  sympathy  with  these  same  reformers.  His  early  verse,  too,  reflects 
the  sentimentality  with  which  Willis  and  his  contemporaries  had 
charged  the  literary  atmosphere.  Then  came  the  first  Biglow  Papers, 
with  their  indignation  against  the  Mexican  War,  and  later  the  second 
series,  near  the  close  of  the  Civil  War,  which  gave  voice,  with  mingled 
bitterness  and  humor,  to  the  determined  attitude  of  the  North.  Again, 
in  1875,  there  breathes  through  one  of  his  odes,  Under  the  Old  Elm 
the  spirit  of  reconciliation  and  of  magnanimous  praise  for  the  valor 
of  the  defeated.  Lowell,  too,  as  successor  of  Longfellow  in  the  chair 
of  modern  languages  at  Harvard,  fitly  represented  the  academic  side  of 
American  letters.  In  his  later  years,  as  an  advocate  of  reform  in 
political  life,  and  as  the  representative  of  the  nation  at  the  Court  of  St. 
James,  in  London,  he  finally  emerges  as  a  national  public  figure,  and 
becomes,  in  his  essays  and  addresses,  an  interpreter  to  the  Old  World 
of  the  ideals  of  American  democracy. 

The  early  surroundings  of  LowelPs  life  were  peculiarly  fortunate.  He 
was  born  at  "  Elm  wood,"  an  old  colonial  house  in  Cambridge,  Massa 
chusetts,  which  had  been  used  as  a  hospital  for  wounded  soldiers  after 
the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill.  He  came  of  sound  New  England  stock, 
with  a  sprinkling  of  ministers  and  lawyers  in  his  family  line.  His 
father  was  the  Rev.  Charles  Lowell,  minister  of  a  church  in  Boston. 
He  was  graduated  from  Harvard  in  1838,  and  then  went  through  the 
law  school,  but  soon  gave  up  the  law  for  literature.  His  first  volume 
of  poems  appeared  three  years  after  graduation,  and  this  was  followed 
by  several  other  volumes,  at  intervals,  through  a  long  series  of  years. 

In  1844  Lowell  married  Miss  Maria  White,  a  young  woman  of  literary 
gifts,  who  was  also  intensely  interested  in  all  the  reforms  that  were  then 
in  the  air.  It  is  often  asserted  that  Lowell,  always  susceptible  to  sur 
rounding  influences,  was  led  by  his  wife  to  join  the  antislavery  move- 


1 70  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

ment,  but  it  is  more  than  likely  that  it  was  his  strong  humanitarian 
impulses  which  drew  him  into  this  struggle.  For  a  time  he  worked 
on  an  antislavery  newspaper  in  Philadelphia,  but  soon  returned  with 
his  wife  to  his  father's  house  at  Cambridge.  Here,  however,  he 
continued  to  write  for  antislavery  and-  other  journals.  In  1846  there 
began  to  appear  in  the  Boston  Courier  his  Biglo^v  Papers,  written  in 
the  up-country  Yankee  dialect,  and  satirizing  the  motives  which  are 
supposed  to  have  led  to  the  Mexican  War.  These  satires  were  well 
received  by  the  public,  and  Lowell  had  now  made  a  promising  start  as 
a  professional  man  of  letters.  A  series  of  successful  lectures  delivered 
in  Boston  at  the  Lowell  Institute,  an  institution  founded  by  his  cousin, 
led  to  his  appointment,  in  1855,  as  Longfellow's  successor  as  Smith 
professor  of  modern  languages  at  Harvard.  During  the  years  that  he 
held  this  professorship,  he  edited,  at  different  times,  both  the  Atlantic 
I\Io)ithly  and  the  NortJi  American  Review,  and  he  published  volumes 
of  verse  and  literary  essays ;  but  his  most  important  literary  production 
during  this  time  was  the  second  series  of  The  Biglo-w  Papers,  which 
dealt  with  the  Civil  War. 

The  years  that  followed  The  lUglcnv  Papers  were  the  most  fruitful 
years  of  Lowell's  life.  In  1865  he  wrote  a  noble  ode  in  commemoration 
of  the  Harvard  men  who  fell  in  battle  ;  and,  in  1875,  he  wrote  Under  the 
Old  Elm,  celebrating  the  one  hundredth  anniversary  of  Washington's 
taking  command  of  the  American  army  at  Cambridge.  In  this  ode 
he  showed  himself  too  broadly  patriotic  to  cherish  any  of  the  animosity 
bred  by  the  Civil  War.  Lowell's  greatest  opportunity  came  in  1880, 
when,  after  serving  for  three  years  as  minister  to  Spain,  he  was  trans 
ferred  to  the  Court  of  St.  James  in  London.  His  character  broadened 
and  his  talents  ripened  during  these  years  of  diplomatic  service.  He 
developed,  rather  to  the  surprise  of  his  friends,  into  a  wise,  witty,  and 
wholly  effective  public  speaker.  He  was  in  special  demand  in  Kngland 
for  after-dinner  speeches,  and  for  occasional  literary  and  political  ad 
dresses.  His  address  on  Democracy  was  a  clear-sighted  and  forceful 
presentation  to  an  English  audience  of  the  ideals  of  democratic  America. 
Its  freedom  from  boastfulness,  its  plain  recognition  of  dangers,  its  calm 
hopefulness  for  the  future,  mark  Lowell  as  a  remarkably  intelligent  and 
well-poised  American  citizen  of  the  great  world. 

On  his  return  to  America,  in  1885,  Lowell  settled  down  quietly 
among  his  books  and  friends  at'Cambridge.  Hut  he  interested  him 
self  in  the  independent  movement  in  politics  which  sprang  up  during 


LOWELL  171 

the  presidential  campaign  of  1884,  — a  movement  to  reform  the  civil 
service,  and  to  elevate  the  tone  of  public  life.  He  had  ceased  to  be  a 
strict  party  man,  because  the  day  of  intense  partisanship  had  passed. 
During  the  few  remaining  years  of  his  life,  he  was,  like  Bryant  before 
him,  commonly  regarded  as  the  first  citizen  of  the  Republic. 

As  an  American  man  of  letters,  Lowell's  place  seems  secure  in  the 
first  group ;  but  critics  are  not  of  one  mind  as  to  his  relative  position  in 
this  group.  He  lacks  Emerson's  intellectual  steadiness  and  imagina 
tive  reach  ;  he  has  not  Longfellow's  supreme  good  taste  and  gift  of 
simple  melody ;  and  he  is  far  behind  Poe  in  perfection  of  form  and 
in  lyric  power.  But  there  are  two  qualities  that  Lowell  possessed 
in  a  high  degree, — patriotic  fervor  and  a. sense  of  humor.  Both  of 
these  qualities  find  abundant  expression  in  The  Biglow  Papers.  In 
the  commemoration  odes  there  is  the  spirit  of  elevated  and  sustained 
patriotism.  Humor  sparkles  through  the  whimsical  Fable  for  Critics, 
and  is  found  in  many  of  his  prose  essays,  notably  in  the  one  On  a  Cer 
tain  Condescension  in  Foreigners.  Finally,  then,  Lowell,  while  not  our 
greatest  writer,  is  our  most  representative  man  of  letters,  since  his  writ 
ings  reflect  so  variously  the  experiences  of  his  generation ;  and  he  was, 
moreover,  a  greater  citizen  than  any  of  his  literary  contemporaries. 

WHAT   IS   SO    RARE   AS   A   DAY   IN   JUNE? 

FROM    THE   VISION  'OF  SIR  LAUNFAL 

FOR  a  cap  and  bells  our  lives  we  pay, 
Bubbles  we  buy  with  a  whole  soul's  tasking  : 

Tis  heaven  alone  that  is  given  away, 
Tis  only  God  may  be  had  for  the  asking ; 
No  price  is  set  on  the  lavish  summer ;  5 

June  may  be  had  by  the  poorest  comer. 

And  what  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June? 

Then,  if  ever,  come  perfect  days  ; 
Then  heaven  tries  earth  if  it  be  in  tune, 

And  over  it  softly  her  warm  ear  lays ;  10 

Whether  we  look  or  whether  we  listen, 
We  hear  life  murmur  or  see  it  glisten ; 


MIDDLE  PERIOD 

Every  clod  feels  a  stir  of  might, 

An  instinct  .within  it  that  reaches  and  towers, 
And,  groping  blindly  above  it  for  light, 

Climbs  to  a  soul  in  grass  and  flowers  ; 
The  flush  of  life  may  well  be  seen  5 

Thrilling  back  over  hills  and  valleys  ; 
The  cowslip  startles  in  meadows  green, 

The  buttercup  catches  the  sun  in  its  chalice, 
And  there's  never  a  leaf  nor  a  blade  too  mean 

To  be  some  happy  creature's  palace  ;  10 

The  little  bird  sits  at  his  door  in  the  sun, 

Atilt  like  a  blossom  among  the  leaves, 
And  lets  his  illumined  being  o'errun 

With  the  deluge  of  summer  it  receives ; 
Mis  mate  feels  the  eggs  beneath  her  wings,  15 

And  the  heart  in  her  dumb  breast  flutters  and  sings; 
He  sings  to  the  wide  world  and  she  to  her  nest,  — 
In  the  nice  ear  of  Nature  which  song  is  the  best? 
Now  is  the  high  tide  of  the  year, 

And  whatever  of  life  hath  ebbed  away  20 

Comes  flooding  back  with  a  ripply  cheer, 

Into  every  bare  inlet  and  creek  and  bay ; 
Now  the  heart  is  so  full  that  a  drop  overfills  it, 
We  are  happy  now  because  God  wills  it ; 
No  matter  how  barren  the  past  may  have  been,  25 

Tis  enough  for  us  now  that  the  leaves  are  green  ; 
We  sit  in  the  warm  shade  and  feel  right  well 
How  the  sap  creeps  up  and  the  blossoms  swell ; 
We  may  shut  our  eyes,  but  we  cannot  help  knowing 
That  skies  are  clear  and  grass  is  growing ;  30 

The  breeze  comes  whispering  in  our  ear, 
That  dandelions  are  blossoming  near, 

That  maize  has  sprouted,  that  streams  are  flowing, 
That  the  river  is  bluer  than  the  sky, 
That  the  robin  is  plastering  his  house  hard  by  ;  35 


LOWELL  173 

And  if  the  breeze  kept  the  good  news  back, 
For  other  couriers  we  should  not  lack ; 

We  could  guess  it  all  by  yon  heifer's  lowing,  — 
And  hark!  how  clear. bold  chanticleer, 
Warmed  with  the  new  wine  of  the  year,  5 

Tells  all  in  his  lusty  crowing  ! 

THE   COURTIN' 

GOD  makes  sech  nights,  all  white  an'  still 

Fur  'z  you  can  look  or  listen, 
Moonshine  an'  snow  on  field  an'  hill, 

All  silence  an'  all  glisten.  T0 

Zekle  crep'  up  quite  unbeknown 

An'  peeked  in  thru  the  winder, 
An'  there  sot  Huldy  all  alone, 

'ith  no  one  nigh  to  hender. 

A  fireplace  filled  the  room's  one  side  15 

With  half  a  cord  o'  wood  in  - 
There  warn't  no  stoves  (tell  comfort  died) 

To  bake  ye  to  a  puddin'. 

The  wa'nut  logs  shot  sparkles  out 

Towards  the  pootiest,  bless  her,  20 

An'  leetle  flames  danced  all  about 

The  chiny  on  the  dresser. 

Agin  the  chimbley  crook-necks  hung, 

An'  in  amongst  'em  rusted 
The  ole  queen's-arm  thet  gran'ther  Young  *     25 

Fetched  back  f'om  Concord  busted. 

The  very  room,  coz  she  was  in, 
Seemed  warm  f'om  floor  to  ceilin', 


MIDDLE   PERIOD 

An'  she  looked  full  ez  rosy  agin 
Ez  the  apples  she  was  peelin'. 

Twas  kin'  o'  kingdom-come  to  look 

On  sech  a  blessed  cretur ; 
A  dogrose  blushin'  to  a  brook  5 

Ain't  modester  nor  sweeter. 

He  was  six  foot  o'  man,  A  i, 

Clear  grit  an'  human  natur'  ; 
None  couldn't  quicker  pitch  a  ton 

Nor  dror  a  furrer  straighter.  10 

He'd  sparked  it  with  full  twenty  gals, 

He'd  squired  'em,  danced  'em,  druv  'em, 

Fust  this  one,  an'  then  thet,  by  spells  — 
All  is,  he  couldn't  love  'em. 

But  long  o'  her  his  veins  'ould  run  15 

All  crinkly  like  curled  maple  ; 
The  side  she  breshed  felt  full  o'  sun 

Ez  a  south  slope  in  Ap'il. 

She  thought  no  v'ice  hed  sech  a  swing 

Ez  hisn  in  the  choir ;  20 

My !  when  he  made  Ole  Hunderd  ring 

She  knowed  the  Lord  was  nigher. 

An'  she'd  blush  scarlit,  right  in  prayer, 

When  her  new  meetin'-bunnet 
Felt  somehow  thru  its  crown  a  pair  25 

O'  blue  eyes  sot  upun  it. 

Thet  night,  I  tell  ye,  she  looked  some  ! 

She  seemed  to  Ve  gut  a  new  soul, 
For  she  felt  sartin-sure  he'd  come, 

Down  to  her  very  shoe-sole.  30 


LOWELL  175 

She  heered  a  foot,  an'  knovved  it  tu, 

A-raspin'  on  the  scraper,  — 
All  ways  to  once  her  feelin's  flew 

Like  sparks  in  burnt-up  paper. 

He  kin'  o'  1'itered  on  the  mat,  5 

Some  doubtfle  o'  the  sekle ; 
His  heart  kep'  goin'  pity-pat, 

But  hern  went  pity  Zekle. 

An'  yit  she  gin  her  cheer  a  jerk 

Ez  though  she  wished  him  furder,  10 

An'  on  her  apples  kep'  to  work, 

Parin'  away  like  murder. 

"  You  want  to  see  my  Pa,  I  s'pose  ?  " 

"  Wai  ...  no  ...  I  come  dasignin'  "  - 

"To  see  my  Ma?     She's  sprinklin'  clo'es  15 

Agin  to-morrer's  i'nin'." 

To  say  why  gals  act  so  or  so, 

Or  don't,  'ould  be  presumin' ; 
Mebby  to  mean  yes  an'  say  no 

Comes  nateral  to  women.  20 

He  stood  a  spell  on  one  foot  fust, 

Then  stood  a  spell  on  t'other, 
An'  on  which  one  he  felt  the  wust 

He  couldn't  ha'  told  ye  nuther. 

Says  he,  "  I'd  better  call  agin  "  ;  25 

Says  she,  "Think  likely,  Mister"; 
Thet  last  word  pricked  him  like  a  pin, 

An'  .   .  .    Wai,  he  up  an'  kist  her. 

When  Ma  bimeby  upon  'em  slips, 

Huldy  sot  pale  ez  ashes,  30 


1/6  MIDDLE    PERIOD 

All  kin'  o'  smily  roun'  the  lips 
An'  teary  roun'  the  lashes. 

For  she  was  jes'  the  quiet  kind 

Whose  naturs  never  vary, 
Like  streams  that  keep  a  summer  mind 

Snowhid  in  Jenooary. 

The  blood  clost  roun'  her  heart  felt  glued 
Too  tight  for  all  expressin', 

Tell  mother  see  how  metters  stood, 
An'  gin  'em  both  her  blessin'. 

Then  her  red  come  back  like  the  tide 
Down  to  the  Bay  o'  Fundy, 

An'  all  I  know  is  they  was  cried 
In  meetin'  come  nex'  Sunday. 


A   VISION    OF    PEACE 

FROM    THE   HI  GLOW  PAPERS 

UNDER  the  yaller-pines  I  house,  15 

When  sunshine  makes  'em  all  sweet-scented, 
An'  hear  among  their  furry  boughs 

The  baskin'  west-wind  purr  contented, 
While  'way  o'erhead,  ez  sweet  an'  low 

Ez  distant  bells  thet  ring  for  meetin',  20 

The  wedged  wiF  geese  their  bugles  blow, 

Further  an'  further  South  retreatin'. 

Or  up  the  slippery  knob  I  strain 

An'  see  a  hunderd  hills  like  islan's 
Lift  their  blue  woods  in  broken  chain  25 

Out  o'  the  sea  o'  snowy  silence ; 


LOWELL  177 

The  farm-smokes,  sweetes'  sight  on  airth, 

Slow  thru  the  winter  air  a-shrinkin' 
Seem  kin'  o'  sad,  an'  roun'  the  hearth 

Of  empty  places  set  me  thinkin'. 

^*^*^^** 

Rat-tat-tat-tattle  thru  the  street  5 

I  hear  the  drummers  makin'  riot, 
An'  I  set  thinkin'  o'  the  feet 

Thet  follered  once  an'  now  are  quiet,  — 
White  feet  ez  snowdrops  innercent, 

Thet  never  knowed  the  paths  o'  Satan,  10 

Whose  comin'  step  ther'  's  ears  thet  won't, 

No,  not  lifelong,  leave  off  awaitin'. 

Why,  hain't  I  held  'em  on  my  knee? 

Didn't  I  love  to  see  'em  growin', 
Three  likely  lads  ez  wal  could  be,  15 

Hahnsome  an'  brave  an'  not  tu  knowin'  ? 
I  set  an'  look  into  the  blaze 

Whose  natur',  jes'  like  theirn,  keeps  climbin', 
Ez  long  'z  it  lives,  in  shinin'  ways, 

An'  half  despise  myself  for  rhymin'.  20 

Wut's  words  to  them  whose  faith  an'  truth 

On  \Var's  red  techstone  rang  true  metal, 
Who  ventered  life  an'  love  an'  youth 

For  the  gret  prize  o'  death  in  battle  ? 
To  him  who,  deadly  hurt,  agen  25 

Flashed  on  afore  the  charge's  thunder, 
Tippin'  with  fire  the  bolt  of  men 

Thet  rived  the  rebel  line  asunder? 

'Tain't  right  to  hev  the  young  go  fust, 

All  throbbin'  full  o'  gifts  an'  graces,  30 

Leavin'  life's  paupers  dry  ez  dust 

To  try  'an'  make  b'lieve  fill  their  places  : 
LONG'S  AM.  POEMS —  12 


MIDDLE   PERIOD 

Nothin'  but  tells  us  wut  we  miss, 

Ther'  's  gaps  our  lives  can't  never  fay  in, 

An'  thet  world  seems  so  fur  from  this 
Lef  for  us  loafers  to  grow  gray  in. 

My  eyes  cloud  up  for  rain  ;  my  mouth  5 

Will  take  to  twitchin'  roun'  the  corners ; 
I  pity  mothers,  tu,  down  South, 

For  all  they  sot  among  the  scorners. 
######## 

Come,  Peace  !  not  like  a  mourner  bowed 

For  honor  lost  an'  dear  ones  wasted,  10 

But  proud,  to  meet  a  people  proud, 

With  eyes  thet  tell  o'  triumph  tasted  ! 
Come,  with  ban'  grippin'  on  the  hilt, 

An'  step  thet  proves  ye  Victory's  daughter  ! 
Longin'  for  you,  our  sperits  wilt  15 

Like  shipwrecked  men's  on  raf's  for  water. 

Come  while  our  country  feels  the  lift 

Of  a  gret  instinct  shoutin'  forwards, 
An'  knows  thet  freedom  ain't  a  gift 

Thet  tarries  long  in  ban's  o'  cowards  !  20 

Come,  sech  ez  mothers  prayed  for,  when 

They  kissed  their  cross  with  lips  thet  quivered, 
An'  bring  fair  wages  for  brave  men, 

A  nation  saved,  a  race  delivered  ! 

LINCOLN 

SUCH  was  he,  our  Martyr-Chief,  25 

Whom  late  the  Nation  he  had  led, 

With  ashes  on  her  head, 
Wept  with  the  passion  of  an  angry  grief: 
Forgive  me,  if  from  present  tilings  I  turn 


LOWELL 


179 


To  speak  what  in  my  heart  will  beat  and  burn, 
And  hang  my  wreath  on  his  world-honored  urn. 

Nature,  they  say,  doth  dote, 

And  cannot  make  a  man 

Save  on  some  worn-out  plan,  5 

Repeating  us  by  rote  : 

For  him  her  Old-World  moulds  aside  she  threw, 
And,  choosing  sweet  clay  from  the  breast 

Of  the  unexhausted  West, 

With  stuff  untainted  shaped  a  hero  new,  I0 

Wise,  steadfast  in  the  strength  of  God,  and  true. 

How  beautiful  to  see 

Once  more  a  shepherd  of  mankind  indeed, 
Who  loved  his  charge,  but  never  loved  to  lead  ; 
One  whose  meek  flock  the  people  joyed  to  be,  15 

Not  lured  by  any  cheat  of  birth, 
But  by  his  clear-grained  human  worth, 
And  brave  old  wisdom  of  sincerity  ! 

They  knew  that  outward  grace  is  dust ; 
They  could  not  choose  but  trust  20 

In  that  sure-footed  mind's  unfaltering  skill, 

And  supple-tempered  will 

That  bent  like  perfect  steel  to  spring  again  and  thrust. 
His  was  no  lonely  mountain-peak  of  mind, 
Thrusting  to  thin  air  o'er  our  cloudy  bars,  25 

A  sea-mark  now,  now  lost  in  vapor's  blind  ; 
Broad  prairie  rather,  genial,  level-lined, 
Fruitful  and  friendly  for  all  human  kind, 
Yet  also  nigh  to  heaven  and  loved  of  loftiest  stars. 

Nothing  of  Europe  here,  30 

Or,  then,  of  Europe  fronting  mornward  still, 
Ere  any  names  of  Serf  and  Peer 
Could  Nature's  equal  scheme  deface 
And  thwart  her  genial  will ; 
Here  was  a  type  of  the  true  elder  race,  35 


,3o  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

And  one  of  Plutarch's  men  talked  with  us  face  to  face. 

I  praise  him  not ;  it  were  too  late  ; 
And  some  innative  weakness  there  must  be 
In  him  who  condescends  to  victory 
Such  as  the  Present  gives,  and  cannot  wait, 
Safe  in  himself  as  in  a  fate. 
So  always  firmly  he  : 
He  knew  to  bide  his  time, 
And  can  his  fame  abide, 
Still  patient  in  his  simple  faith  sublime, 

Till  the  wise  years  decide. 
Great  captains,  with  their  guns  and  drums, 
Disturb  our  judgment  for  the  hour, 

But  at  last  silence  comes ; 
These  all  are  gone,  and,  standing  like  a  tower, 

Our  children  shall  behold  his  fame, 
The  kindly-earnest,  brave,  foreseeing  man, 
Sagacious,  patient,  dreading  praise,  not  blame, 
New  birth  of  our  new  soil,  the  first  American. 

VIRGINIA 

FROM    UNDER    THE    OLD   ELM 

VIRGINIA  gave  us  this  imperial  man 

Cast  in  the  massive  mould 

Of  those  high-statured  ages  old 

Which  into  grander  forms  our  mortal  metal  ran  ; 

She  gave  us  this  unblemished  gentleman  : 

What  shall  we  give  her  back  but  love  and  praise 

As  in  the  dear  old  unestranged  days 

Before  the  inevitable  wrong  began? 

Mother  of  States  and  undiminished  men, 

Thou  gavest  us  a  country,  giving  him, 

And  we  owe  always  what  we  owed  thee  then  : 

The  boon  thou  wouldst  have  snatched  from  us  again 


LOWELL  l8l 

Shines  as  before  with  no  abatement  dim. 

A  great  man's  memory  is  the  only  thing 

With  influence  to  outlast  the  present  whim 

And  bind  us  as  when  here  he  knit  our  golden  ring. 

All  of  him  that  was  subject  to  the  hours  5 

Lies  in  thy  soil  and  makes  it  part  of  ours  : 

Across  more  recent  graves, 

Where  unresentful  Nature  waves 

Her  pennons  o'er  the  shot-plowed  sod, 

Proclaiming  the  sweet  Truce  of  God,  10 

We  from  this  consecrated  plain  stretch  out 

Our  hands  as  free  from  afterthought  or  doubt 

As  here  the  united  North 

Poured  her  embrowned  manhood  forth 

In  welcome  of  our  savior  and  thy  son.  15 

Through  battle  we  have  better  learned  thy  worth, 

The  long-breathed  valor  and  undaunted  will, 

Which,  like  his  own,  the  day's  disaster  done, 

Could,  safe  in  manhood,  suffer  and  be  still. 

Both  thine  and  ours  the  victory  hardly  won  ;  20 

If  ever  with  distempered  voice  or  pen 

We  have  misdeemed  thee,  here  we  take  it  back, 

And  for  the  dead  of  both  don  common  black. 

Be  to  us  evermore  as  thou  wast  then, 

As  we  forget  thou  hast  not  always  been,  25 

Mother  of  States  and  unpolluted  men, 

Virginia,  fitly  named  from  England's  manly  queen  ! 

TO  THE  DANDELION 

DEAR  common  flower,  that  grow'st  beside  the  way, 
Fringing  the  dusty  road  with  harmless  gold, 

First  pledge  of  blithesome  May,  30 

Which  children  pluck,  and,  full  of  pride,  uphold, 

High-hearted  buccaneers,  o'erjoyed  that  they 


1 82  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

An  Eldorado  in  the  grass  have  found, 

Which  not  the  rich  earth's  ample  round 

May  match  in  wealth,  thou  art  more  dear  to  me 
Than  all  the  prouder  summer  blooms  may  be. 

Gold  such  as  thine  ne'er  drew  the  Spanish  prow  5 

Through  the  primeval  hush  of  Indian  seas, 

Nor  wrinkled  the  lean  brow 
Of  age,  to  rob  the  lover's  heart  of  ease; 

Tis  the  Spring's  largess,  which  she  scatters  now 
To  rich  and  poor  alike,  with  lavish  hand,  10 

Though  most  hearts  never  understand 

To  take  it  at  God's  value,  but  pass  by 

The  offered  wealth  with  unrewarded  eye. 

Thou  art  my  tropics  and  my  Italy ; 
To  look  at  thee  unlocks  a  warmer  clime  ;  15 

The  eyes  thou  givest  me 
Are  in  the  heart,  and  heed  not  space  of  time : 

Not  in  mid  June  the  golden  cuirassed  bee 
Feels  a  more  summer-like  warm  ravishment- 
In  the  white  lily's  breezy  tent,  20 

His  fragrant  Sybaris,  than  I,  when  first 

From  the  dark  green  thy  yellow  circles  burst. 

Then  think  I  of  deep  shadows  on  the  grass, 
Of  meadows  where  in  sun  the  cattle  graze, 

Where,  as  the  breezes  pass,  25 

The  gleaming  rushes  lean  a  thousand  ways, 

Of  leaves  that  slumber  in  a  cloudy  mass, 
Or  whiten  in  the  wind,  of  waters  blue 
That  from  the  distance  sparkle  through 

Some  woodland  gap,  and  of  a  sky  above,  30 

Where  one  white  cloud  like  a  stray  lamb  doth  move. 


LOWELL  183 

My  childhood's  earliest  thoughts  are  linked  with  thee; 
The  sight  of  thee  calls  back  the  robin's  song, 

Who  from  the  dark  old  tree 
Beside  the  door,  sang  clearly  all  day  long, 

And  I,  secure  in  childish  piety,  5 

Listened  as  if  I  heard  an  angel  sing 
With  news  from  heaven,  which  he  could  bring 

Fresh  every. day  to  my  untainted  ears 

When  birds  and  flowers  were  happy  peers. 

How  like  a  prodigal  doth  nature  seem,  10 

When  thou,  for  all  thy  gold,  so  common  art ! 

Thou  teachest  me  to  deem 
More  sacredly  of  every  human  heart, 

Since  each  reflects  in  joy  its  scanty  gleam 
Of  heaven,  and  could  some  wondrous  secret  show,  15 

Did  we  but  pay  the  love  we  owe, 

And  with  a  child's  undoubting  wisdom  look 

On  all  these  living  pages  of  God's  book. 

HEBE 

I  SAW  the  twinkle  of  white  feet, 
I  saw  the  flash  of  robes  descending;  20 

Before  her  ran  an  influence  fleet, 
That  bowed  my  heart  like  barley  bending. 

As,  in  bare  fields,  the  searching  bees 
Pilot  to  blooms  beyond  our  finding, 

It  led  me  on,  by  sweet  degrees  25 

Joy's  simple  honey-cells  unbinding. 

Those  Graces  were  that  seemed  grim  Fates ; 
With  nearer  love  the  sky  leaned  o'er  me ; 

The  long-sought  Secret's  golden  gates 
On  musical  hinges  swung  before  me.  30 


1 84  MIDDLE    PERIOD 

I  saw  the  brimmed  bowl  in  her  grasp 
Thrilling  with  godhood  ;  like  a  lover 

I  sprang  the  proffered  life  to  clasp ;  — 
The  beaker  fell ;  the  luck  was  over. 

The  earth  has  drunk  the  vintage  up  ; 
What  boots  it  patch  the  goblet's  splinters? 

Can  Summer  fill  the  icy  cup, 
Whose  treacherous  crystal  is  but  winter's? 

O  spendthrift  haste  !  await  the  Gods  ; 
The  nectar  crowns  the  lips  of  Patience  ; 

Haste  scatters  on  unthankful  sods 
The  immortal  gift  in  vain  libations. 

Coy  Hebe  flies  from  those  that  woo, 
And  shuns  the  hand  would  seize  upon  her; 

Follow  thy  life,  and  she  will  sue 
To  pour  for  thee  the  cup  of  honor. 

SHE    CAME    AND    WENT 

As  a  twig  trembles,  which  a  bird 

Lights  on  to  sing,  then  leaves  unbent, 

So  is  my  memory  thrilled  and  stirred  ;  — 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

As  clasps  some  lake,  by  gusts  unriven, 
The  blue  dome's  measureless  content, 

So  my  soul  held  that  moment's  heaven ;  — 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

As,  at  one  bound,  our  swift  spring  heaps 
The  orchards  full  of  bloom  and  scent, 

So  clove  her  May  my  wintry  sleeps ;  — 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 


LOWELL  185 

An  angel  stood  and  met  my  gaze, 

Through  the  low  doorway  of  my  tent ; 
The  tent  is  struck,  the  vision  stays ;  — 

I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

Oh,  when  the  room  grows  slowly  dim,  5 

And  life's  last  oil  is  nearly  spent, 
One  gush  of  light  these  eyes  will  brim, 

Only  to  think  she  came  and  went. 

AUF   WIEDERSEHEN 

SUMMER 

THE  little  gate  was  reached  at  last, 

Half  hid  in  lilacs  down  the  lane  ;  10 

She  pushed  it  wide,  and,  as  she  past, 
A  wistful  look  she  backward  cast, 

And  said,  —  "  Auf  wiedersehen  !  " 

With  hand  on  latch,  a  vision  white 

Lingered  reluctant,  and  again  15 

Half  doubting  if  she  did  aright, 
Soft  as  the  dews  that  fell  that  night, 

She  said,  —  "  Auf  wiedersehen  !  " 

The  lamp's  clear  gleam  flits  up  the  stair ; 

I  linger  in  delicious  pain  ;  20 

Ah,  in  that  chamber,  whose  rich  air 
To  breathe  in  thought  I  scarcely  dare, 

Thinks  she,  —  "  Auf  wiedersehen  !  " 

'Tis  thirteen  years ;  once  more  I  press 

The  turf  that  silences  the  lane  ;  25 

I  hear  the  rustle  of  her  dress, 
I  smell  the  lilacs,  and  —  ah,  yes, 

I  hear,  —  "  Auf  wiedersehen  !  " 


1 86  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

Sweet  piece  of  bashful  maiden  art  ! 

The  English  words  had  seemed  too  fain, 
But  these  —  they  drew  us  heart  to  heart, 
Yet  held  us  tenderly  apart ; 

She  said,  —  "  Auf  wiedersehen  !  " 


II 

Additional  Poets 
WALT    WHITMAN 

1819-1892 

WALT  WHITMAN  was  born  at  West  Hills,  Long  Island,  New  York, 
ot  plain  but  sturdy  English  and  Dutch  ancestry.  When  he  was  lour 
years  old  his  father  removed  to  Brooklyn,  where  his  son  studied  in 
the  public  schools.  Later  he  learned  the  printer's  trade,  taught  school, 
and  edited  a  newspaper.  His  early  verse  attracted  little  attention,  but 
in  1855  his  Leaves  of  Grass  created  much  discussion.  During  the  Civil 
War  he  permanently  impaired  his  rugged  health  by  a  service  of  three 
years  as  a  volunteer  army  nurse  in  and  around  Washington.  His  ex 
periences  in  the  war  inspired  a  volume  of  poems,  Drum-Taps,  from 
which  the  three  poems  given  here  are  taken. 

After  the  war.  Whitman  was  appointed  to  a  government  clerkship  at 
Washington,  a  position  which  he  held  until  his  health  failed.  His  last 
years  were  spent  at  Camden,  New  Jersey,  where  he  died  and  was  buried. 
He  rests  beneath  an  imposing  tomb  designed  by  himself. 

Whitman's  verse  displays  a  strong  Jove  of  nature  and  of  human  kind ; 
and  through  it  all  breathes  the  breath  of  a  virile  and  sincere  patriotism. 

O   CAPTAIN  !     MY   CAPTAIN  ! 

O  CAPTAIN  !  my  Captain  !  our  fearful  trip  is  done, 
The  ship  has  weathered  every  rack,  the  prize  we  sought  is  won, 
The  port  is  near,  the  bells  I  hear,  the  people  all  exulting, 
While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the  vessel  grim  and  daring; 


WHITMAN  187 

But  O  heart !  heart !  heart ! 

0  the  bleeding  drops  of  red, 

Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

0  Captain  !  my  Captain  !  rise  up  and  hear  the  bells ;  5 
Rise  up  —  for  you  the  flag  is  flung  —  for  you  the  bugle  thrills, 
For   you   bouquets   and   ribboned   wreaths  —  for  you   the   shores 

acrowding, 

For  you  they  call,  the  swaying  mass,  their  eager  faces  turning ; 
Here  Captain  !  dear  father  ! 

This  arm  beneath  your  head  !  10 

It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck 
You've  fallen  cold  and  dead. 

My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are  pale  and  still, 
My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has  no  pulse  nor  will, 
The  ship  is  anchored  safe  and  sound,  its  voyage  closed  and  done, 
From  fearful  trip  the  victor  ship  comes  in  with  object  won;          16 
Exult  O  shores,  and  ring  O  bells  ! 
But  I,  with  mournful  tread, 

Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 

Fallen  cold  and  dead.  20 

AS   TOILSOME   I    WANDER'D   VIRGINIA'S    WOODS 

As  toilsome  I  wander'd  Virginia's  woods, 

To  the  music  of  rustling  leaves,  kick'd  by  my  foot  (for  'twas 
autumn), 

1  mark'd  at  the  foot  of  a  tree  the  grave  of  a  soldier, 

Mortally  wounded  he,  and  buried  on  the  retreat  (easily  all  could 

1  understand) ; 

The  halt  of  a  midday  hour,  when  up !  no  time  to  lose,  —  yet  this 
sign  left,  25 

On  a  tablet  scrawl'd  and  nailed  on  the  tree  by  the  grave,  — 
Bold,  cautious,  true,  and  my  loving  comrade. 


1 88  MIDDLE  PERIOD 

Long,  long  I  muse,  then  on  my  way  go  wandering  ; 

Many  a  changeful  season  to  follow,  and  many  a  scene  of  life  ; 

Yet  at  times  through  changeful  season  and  scene,  abrupt,  alone, 

or  in  the  crowded  street, 
Comes    before    me    the    unknown  soldier's  grave  —  comes    the 

inscription   rude  in  Virginia's  woods, — 
Bold,  cautious,  true,  and  my  loving  comrade.  5 

WHEN  LILACS  LAST    IN    THE    DOCKYARD  BLOOM'I) 

WHEN  lilacs  last  in  the  clooryard  bloom'd, 

And  the  great  star  early  droop'd  in  the  western  sky  in  the  night, 

I  mourned,  and  yet  shall  mourn  with  ever  returning  spring. 

O  ever  returning  Spring!  trinity  sure  to  me  you  bring  ; 

Lilac,  blooming  perennial,  and  drooping  star  in  the  west,  10 

And  thought  of  him  I  love. 

O  powerful,  western,  fallen  star! 

()  shades  of  night!  O  moody,  tearful  night! 

O  great  star  disappeared  !     O    the   black  murk  that  hides  the 

star! 

O  cruel  hands  that  hold  me  powerless  !      O  helpless  soul  of  me  ! 
()  harsh  surrounding  cloud,  that  will  not  free  my  soul !  16 

In  the  dooryard  f renting  an  old  farmhouse,  near  the  whitewash 'd 
palings, 

Stands  the  lilac  bush,  tall-growing,  with  heart-shaped  leaves  of 
rich  green, 

With  many  a  pointed  blossom,  rising,  delicate,  with  the  perfume 
strong  I  love, 

With  every  leaf  a  miracle  .  .  .  and  from  this  bush  in  the  door- 
yard,  20 

With  delicate-color'd  blossoms,  and  heart-shaped  leaves  of  rich 
green, 

A  sprig,  with  its  flower,  I  break. 


WHITMAN  189 

In  the  swamp,  in  secluded  recesses, 

A  shy  and  hidden  bird  is  warbling  a  song.     Solitary  the  thrush, 
The  hermit,  withdrawn  to  himself,  avoiding  the  settlements, 
Sings  by  himself  a  song.     Song  of  the  bleeding  throat ! 
Death's  outlet  song  of  life  —  (for  well,  dear  brother,  I  know        5 
If  thou  wast  not  gifted  to  sing  thou  wouldst  surely  die). 

Over  the  breast  of  the  spring,  the  land,  amid  cities, 

Amid  lanes,  and  through  old  woods  (where   lately  the  violets 

peep'd  from  the  ground,  spotting  the  gray  debris) ; 
Amid  the  grass  in  the  fields  each  side  of  the  lanes  —  passing 

the  endless  grass  ; 
Passing  the  yellow-spear'd  wheat,  every  grain  from  its  shroud  in 

the  dark-brown  fields  uprising  ;  10 

Passing  the  apple  tree  blows  of  white  and  pink  in  the  orchards  ; 
Carrying  a  corpse  to  where  it  shall  rest  in  the  grave, 
Night  and  day  journeys  a  coffin. 

Coffin  that  passes  through  lanes  and  streets, 
Through  day  and  night,  with  the  great  cloud  darkening  the  land, 
With  the  pomp  of  the  inloop'd  flags,  with  the  cities  draped  in 

black,  16 

With  the    show  of   the    States    themselves,  as    of    crape-veil'd 

women,  standing, 
With  processions  long  and  winding,  and  the  flambeaus  of  the 

night, 
With  the  countless  torches  lit  —  with  the  silent  sea  of  faces  and 

the  unbared  heads, 

With  the  waiting  depot,  the  arriving  coffin,  and  the  somber  faces, 
With  dirges  through  the  night,  with  the  thousand  voices  rising 

strong  and  solemn  ;  21 

With  all  the  mournful  voices  of  the  dirges,  pour'd  around  the 

coffin, 

The  dim-lit  churches  and  the  shuddering  organs  — 
Where  amid  these  you  journey, 


IQO  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

With  the  toiling,  toiling  bells'  perpetual  clang; 
Here  !  coffin  that  slowly  passes, 
I  give  you  my  sprig  of  lilac. 

******** 
Sing  on  there  in  the  swamp  ! 

0  singer  bashful  and  tender  \     I  hear  your  notes  —  I  hear  your 

call ;  5 

1  hear  —  I  come  presently  —  I  understand  you  ; 

But  a  moment  I  linger  —  for  the  lustrous  star  has  detained  me  ; 
The  star,  my  departing  comrade,  holds  and  detains  me. 

0  how  shall  I  warble  myself  for  the  dead  one  there  I  loved  ? 
And  how7  shall  I  deck  my  song  for  the  large  sweet  soul  that  has 

gone  ?  10 

And  what  shall  my  perfume  be,  for  the  grave  of  him  I  love  ? 

Sea  winds,  blown  from  east  and  west, 
Blown  from  the  eastern  sea,  and  blown  from  the  western  sea, 

till  there  on  the  prairies  meeting: 
These,  and  with  these,  and  the  breath  of  my  chant, 

1  perfume  the  grave  of  him  I  love.  15 

O  what  shall  I  hang  on  the  chamber  walls  ? 
And  what  shall  the  pictures  be  that  I  hang  on  the  walls, 
To  adorn  the  burial  house  of  him  I  love  ? 

Pictures  of  growing  spring,  and  farms,  and  homes, 
With  the  Fourth-month  eve    at  sundown,  and  the  gray  smoke 

lucid  and  bright,  20 

With  floods  of  the  yellow  gold  of  the  gorgeous,  indolent,  sinking 

sun,  burning,  expanding  the  air ; 
With  the  fresh  green   herbage  under  foot,  and  the  pale  green 

leaves  of  the  trees  prolific ; 
In  the  distance  the  flowing  glaze,  the  breast  of  the  river,  with  a 

wind-dapple  here  and  there  ; 
With  ranging  hills  on  the  banks,  with  many  a  line  against  the 

sky,  and  shadows ; 


WHITMAN 


191 


And  the  city  at  hand,  with  dwellings  so  dense,  and  stacks  of 

chimneys, 
And  all  the  scenes  of  life,  and  the  workshops,  and  the  workmen 

homeward  returning. 

Lo  !  body  and  soul  !  this  land  ! 

Mighty  Manhattan,  with  spires,  and  the  sparkling  and  hurrying 

tides,  and  the  ships ; 
The  varied  and  ample  land  —  the  South  and  the  North  in  the 

light  —  Ohio's  shores,  and  flashing  Missouri,  5 

And  even  the  far-spreading  prairies,  cover'cl  with  grass  and  corn. 
Lo  !  the  most  excellent  sun,  so  calm  and  haughty; 
The  violet  and  purple  moon,  with  just-felt  breezes  ; 
The  gentle,  soft-born,  measureless  light ; 

The  miracle,  spreading,  bathing  all  —  the  fulfilPd  noon  ;  J0 

The  coming  eve,  delicious  —  the  welcome  night,  arid  the  stars, 
Over  my  cities  shining  all,  enveloping  man  and  land. 

Sing  on  !  sing  on,  you  gray-brown  bird  ! 

Sing  from  the  swamps,  the  recesses  —  pour  your  chant  from  the 
bushes  ; 

Limitless  out  of  the  dusk,  out  of  the  cedars  and  pines.  15 

Sing  on,  dearest  brother  —  warble  your  reedy  song; 

Loud  human  song,  with  voice  of  uttermost  woe. 

O  liquid,  and  free,  and  tender ! 

O  wild  and  loose  to  my  soul !     O  wondrous  singer  ! 

You  only  I  hear  ...  yet  the  star  holds  me  (but  will  soon  de 
part)  ;  20 

Yet  the  lilac,  with  mastering  odor,  holds  me. 

Now  while  I  sat  in  the  day,  and  look'd  forth, 

In  the  close  of  the  day,  with  its  light,  and  the  fields  of  spring, 

and  the  farmer  preparing  his  crops, 
In  the  large  unconscious  scenery  of  my  land,  with  its  lakes  and 

forests, 


I Q2  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

In  the  heavenly  aerial  beauty  (after  the  perturb'd  winds,  and 

the  storms)  ; 
Under  the  arching  heavens  of  the  afternoon  swift  passing,  and 

the  voices  of  children  and  women, 

The  many-moving  sea  tides,  — and  I  saw  the  ships  how  they  sail'd, 
And  the  summer  approaching  with  richness,  and  the  fields  all 

busy  with  labor, 
And  the  infinite  separate  houses,  how  they  all  went  on,  each 

with  its  meals  and  minutia  of  daily  usages  ;  5 

And  the  streets,  how  their  throbbings  throbb'd,  and  the  cities 

pent —  lo  !  then  and  there, 
Falling  upon  them  all,  and  among  them  all,  enveloping  me  with 

the  rest, 

Appear'd  the  cloud,  appeared  the  long  black  trail  ; 
And  I  knew  Death,  its  thought,  and  the   sacred  knowledge  of 

death. 

Then  with  the  knowledge  of  death  as  walking  one  side  of  me,  10 
And  the  thought  of  death  close  —  walking  the  other  side  of  me, 
And  I  in  the  middle,  as  with  companions,  and  as  holding  the 

hands  of  companions, 

I  fled  forth  to  the  hiding  receiving  night,  that  talks  not, 
Down  to  the  shores  of  the  water,  the  path  by  the  swamp  in  the 

dimness, 

To  the  solemn  shadowy  cedars,  and  ghostly  pines  so  still.          15 
And  the  singer  so  shy  to  the  rest  receiv'd  me  ; 
The  gray-brown  bird  I  know,  received  us  comrades  three  ; 
And  he  sang  what  seem'd  the  carol  of  death,  and  a  verse  for 

him  I  love. 

From  deep  secluded  recesses, 

From  the  fragrant  cedars,  and  the  ghostly  pines  so  still,  20 

Came  the  carol  of  the  bird. 
And  the  charm  of  the  carol  rapt  me, 

As  I  held,  as  if  by  their  hands,  my  comrades  in  the  night ; 
And  the  voice  of  my  spirit  tallied  the  song  of  the  bird. 


PETERSON  193 

HENRY    PETERSON 

1818-1891 

PUBLISHER,  editor,  poet,  Peterson  was  born  in  Philadelphia,  where 
he  spent  most  of  his  life.  For  twenty  years  he  was  assistant  editor 
of  the  Philadelphia  Saturday  Evening  Post,  a  weekly  paper  founded 
by  Benjamin  Franklin.  He  published  two  volumes  of  poems,  and  also 
wrote  several  plays. 

FROM   AN    "ODE   FOR   DECORATION    DAY" 

0  GALLANT  brothers  of  the  generous  South, 
Foes  for  a  day  and  brothers  for  all  time ! 

1  charge  you  by  the  memories  of  our  youth, 

By  Yorktown's  field  and  Montezuma's  clime, 
Hold  our  dead  sacred  —  let  them  quietly  rest  5 

In  your  unnumbered  vales,  where  God  thought  best. 
Your  vines  and  flowers  learned  long  since  to  forgive, 
And  o'er  their  graves  a  broidered  mantle  weave  : 
Be  you  as  kind  as  they  are,  and  the  word 
Shall  reach  the  Northland  with  each  summer  bird,          ?o 
And  thoughts  as  sweet  as  summer  shall  awake 
Responsive  to  your  kindness,  and  shall  make 
Our  peace  the  peace  of  brothers  once  again, 
And  banish  utterly  the  days  of  pain. 

And  ye,  O  Northmen  !  be  ye  not  outdone  15 

In  generous  thought  and  deed. 
We  all  do  need  forgiveness,  every  one ; 

And  they  that  give  shall  find  it  in  their  need. 
Spare  of  your  flowers  to  deck  the  stranger's  grave, 

Who  died  for  a  lost  cause  :  —  20 

A  soul  more  daring,  resolute,  and  brave. 

Ne'er  won  a  world's  applause. 
A  brave  man's  hatred  pauses  at  the  tomb. 
For  him  some  Southern  home  was  robed  in  gloom, 

LONG'S  AM.  POEMS —  13  - 


194  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

Some  wife  or  mother  looked  with  longing  eyes 

Through  the  sad  days  and  nights  with  tears  and  sighs, 

Hope  slowly  hardening  into  gaunt  Despair. 

Then  let  your  foeman's  grave  remembrance  share  : 

Pity  a  higher  charm  to  Valor  lends,  5 

And  in  the  realms  of  Sorrow  all  are  friends. 


WILLIAM    WETMORE   STORY 

1819-1895 

THE  poetry  of  Story  is  marked  by  refinement  and  careful  workman 
ship  rather  than  by  power.  His  fame  rests  chiefly  upon  his  work  as  a 
sculptor.  He  was  born  at  Salem,  Massachusetts,  was  graduated  from 
Harvard,  and  started  life  as  a  lawyer.  His  father  was  a  justice  of  the 
United  States  Supreme  Court.  The  son,  however,  gave  up  law  for 
sculpture,  and  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  life  in  Italy,  where  he  died. 
He  published  several  volumes  of  essays  and  poems,  one  novel,  and  one 
play. 

IO   VICTIS 

I  SING  the  hymn  of  the  conquered,  who  fell  in    the  Battle  of 

Life,  - 
The  hymn  of  the  wounded,  the  beaten,  who  died  overwhelmed 

in  the  strife ; 
Not  the  jubilant  song  of  the  victors,  for  whom  the  resounding 

acclaim 
Of  nations  was  lifted  in  chorus,  whose  brows  wore  the  chaplet 

of  fame,  I0 

But  the  hymn  of  the  low  and  the  humble,  the  weary,  the  broken 

in  heart, 
Who  strove  and  who  failed,  acting  bravely  a  silent  and  desperate 

part; 
Whose  youth  bore  no  flower  on  its  branches,  whose  hopes  burned 

in  ashes  away, 


STORY  195 

From  whose  hands  slipped  the  prize  they  had  grasped  at,  who 

stood  at  the  dying  of  day 
With  the  wreck  of  their  life  all  around  them,  unpitied,  unheeded, 

alone, 
With  Death  swooping  down  o'er  their  failure,  and  all  but  their 

faith  overthrown, 

While  the  voice  of  the  world  shouts  its  chorus,  —  its  paean  for 

those  who  have  won  ; 
While  the  trumpet  is  sounding  triumphant,  and  high  to  the  breeze 

and  the  sun  5 

Glad  banners  are  waving,  hands  clapping,  and  hurrying  feet 
Thronging  after  the  laurel-crowned  victors,  I  stand  on  the  field 

of  defeat, 
In  the  shadow,  with  those  who  have  fallen,  and  wounded,  and 

dying,  and  there 
Chant  a  requiem  low,  place  my  hand  on  their  pain-knotted  brows, 

breathe  a  prayer, 
Hold  the  hand  that  is  helpless,  and  whisper,  "  They  only  the 

victory  win,  10 

Who  have  fought  the  good  fight,  and  have  vanquished  the  demon 

that  tempts  us  within  ; 
Who  have  held  to  their  faith  unseduced  by  the  prize  that  the 

world  holds  on  high  ; 
Who  have  dared  for  a  high  cause  to  suffer,  resist,   fight,  —  if 

need  be,  to  die." 

Speak,  History  !  who  are  Life's  victors  ?    Unroll  thy  long  annals, 

and  say, 
Are  they  those  whom  the  world  called  the  victors — who  won  the 

success  of  a  day  ?  15 

The  martyrs,  or  Nero  ?     The  Spartans,  who  fell  at  Thermopylae's 

tryst, 
Or  the  Persians  and  Xerxes  ?     His  judges  or  Socrates  ?     Pilate 

or  Christ  ? 


196  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

JULIA    WARD    HOWE 

1819- 

MRS.  HOWE  was  born  in  New  York  city,  where  her  father,  Samuel 
Ward,  was  a  banker.  She  was  married  to  Dr.  S.  G.  Howe  of  Boston, 
and  with  him  she  edited  an  antislavery  paper  in  that  city.  Her  life  has 
been  a  long  and  busy  one.  She  has  written  several  volumes  of  verse, 
travel,  and  biography ;  and  she  has  been  an  earnest  advocate,  both  as 
a  writer  and  as  a  lecturer,  of  woman  suffrage  and  of  prison  reforms. 

BATTLE-HYMN    OF    THE    REPUBLIC 

MINE  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the  Lord  : 

He  is  trampling  out  the  vintage  where  the  grapes  of  wrath  are 

stored  ; 

He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning  of  his  terrible  swift  sword  : 
His  truth  is  marching  on. 

I  have  seen  Him  in  the  watch-fires  of  a  hundred  circling  camps  ; 

They  have  builcled  Him  an  altar  in  the  evening  dews  and  damps  ; 

I  can  read  1 1  is  righteous  sentence  by  the  dim  and  flaring  lamps. 

His  day  is  marching  on.  8 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel,  writ  in  burnished  rows  of  steel : 
"  As  ye  deal  with  my  contemners,  so  with  you  my  grace  shall  deal ; 
Let  the  Hero,  born  of  woman,  crush  the  serpent  with  his  heel, 
Since  God  is  marching  on." 

He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall  never  call  retreat  ; 
He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  his  judgment-seat:    14 
Oh  !  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  Him !  be  jubilant,  my  feet ! 
Our  God  is  marching  on. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  born  across  the  sea, 
With  a  glory  in  his  bosom  that  transfigures  you  and  me  : 
As  he  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make- men  free, 

While  God  is  marching  on.  20 


PARSONS  197 

THOMAS    WILLIAM    PARSONS 

1819-1892 

THE  poem  given  below,  Lines  on  a  Bust  of  Dante,  is  the  best-known 
short  poem  by  Parsons.  He  also  translated  several  cantos  of  Dante's 
Inferno,  and  he  was  a  lifelong  and  sympathetic  student  of  the  great 
Italian  poet.  He  was  born  in  Boston  and  educated  at  the  Boston 
Latin  School.  He  was  a  dentist  by  profession,  and  practiced  in  Lon 
don  and  Boston,  residing  in  the  latter  city  during  the  last  twenty  years 
of  his  life.  He  is  the  author  of  several  volumes  of  verse. 

ON    A    BUST    OF    DANTE 

SEE,  from  this  counterfeit  of  him 
Whom  Arno  shall  remember  long, 

How  stern  of  lineament,  how  grim, 
The  father  was  of  Tuscan  song : 
There  but  the  burning  sense  of  wrong,  5 

Perpetual  care  and  scorn,  abide  ; 
Small  friendship  for  the  lordly  throng ; 

Distrust  of  all  the  world  beside. 

Faithful  if  this  wan  image  be, 
No  dream  his  life  was,  —  but  a  fight !  10 

Could  any  Beatrice  see 
A  lover  in  that  anchorite  ? 
To  that  cold  Ghibelline's  gloomy  sight 

Who  could  have  guessed  the  visions  came 
Of  beauty,  veiled  with  heavenly  light,  15 

In  circles  of  eternal  flame  ? 

The  lips  as  Cumae's  cavern  close, 
The  cheeks  with  fast  and  sorrow  thin, 

The  rigid  front,  almost  morose, 
But  for  the  patient  hope  within,  20 


198  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

Declare  a  life  whose  course  hath  been 

Unsullied  still,  though  still  severe, 
Which,  through  the  wavering  days  of  sin, 

Kept  itself  icy-chaste  and  clear. 

Not  wholly  such  his  haggard  look  5 

When  wandering  once,  forlorn,  he  strayed, 

With  no  companion  save  his  book, 
To  Corvo's  hushed  monastic  shade  ; 
WThere,  as  the  Benedictine  laid 

His  palm  upon  the  convent's  guest,  10 

The  single  boon  for  which  he  prayed 

WTas  peace,  that  pilgrim's  one  request. 

Peace  dwells  not  here,  —  this  rugged  face 
Betrays  no  spirit  of  repose  ; 

The  sullen  warrior  sole  we  trace,  15 

The  marble  man  of  many  woes. 
Such  was  his  mien  when  first  arose 

The  thought  of  that  strange  tale  divine, 
When  hell  he  peopled  with  his  foes, 

Dread  scourge  of  many  a  guilty  line.  20 

War  to  the  last  he  waged  with  all 
The  tyrant  canker-worms  of  earth  ; 

Baron  and  duke,  in  hold  and  hall, 
Cursed  the  dark  hour  that  gave  him  birth  ; 
He  used  Rome's  harlot  for  his  mirth  ;  25 

Plucked  bare  hypocrisy  and  crime  ; 
But  valiant  souls  of  knightly  worth 

Transmitted  to  the  rolls  of  Time. 

O  Time  !  whose  verdicts  mock  our  own, 
The  only  righteous  judge  art  thou  ;  30 

That  poor  old  exile,  sad  and  lone, 
Is  Latium's  other  Virgil  now  : 


O'HARA  199 

Before  his  name  the  nations  bow ; 

His  words  are  parcel  of  mankind, 
Deep  in  whose  hearts,  as  on  his  brow, 

The  marks  have  sunk  of  Dante's  mind. 

THEODORE    O'HARA 

1820-1867 

LAWYER,  poet,  editor,  and  soldier  of  fortune,  O'Hara  was  born  of 
Irish  parentage  at  Danville,  Kentucky.  He  served  in  the  Mexican 
War  and  was  wounded  at  Cherubusco.  He  was  brevetted  major  on 
the  field  for  gallantry.  Later  he  joined  filibustering  expeditions  to 
Cuba  and  Nicaragua.  On  his  return,  he  was  made  a  captain  in  the 
Second  Cavalry,  U.S.A.,  but  he  resigned  this  position  and  became 
editor  of  the  Mobile  Register.  He  also  practiced  law  in  Washington. 
At  the  outbreak  of  the  Civil  War  he  joined  the  Confederate  army,  serv 
ing  with  the  rank  of  colonel,  and  seeing  hard  service  at  Shiloh  and  in 
the  seven  days1  fighting  around  Richmond  After  the  war  he  engaged 
in  the  cotton  business  at  Columbus,  Georgia.  He  lost  everything  by 
fire,  and  retired  to  a  plantation  in  Alabama,  where  he  died.  In  1874 
the  Kentucky  legislature  had  his  remains  removed  to  his  native  state. 

THE   BIVOUAC   OF    THE   DEAD 

THE  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat  5 

The  soldier's  last  tattoo  ; 
No  more  on  Life's  parade  shall  meet 

That  brave  and  fallen  few. 
On  Fame's  eternal  camping-ground 

Their  silent  tents  are  spread,  10 

And  Glory  guards,  with  solemn  round, 

The  bivouac  of  the  dead. 

No  rumor  of  the  foe's  advance 

Now  swells  upon  the  wind  ; 
No  troubled  thought  at  midnight  haunts  15 

Of  loved  ones  left  behind  ; 


200  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

No  vision  of  the  morrow's  strife 

The  warrior's  dream  alarms ; 
No  braying  horn  nor  screaming  fife 

At  dawn  shall  call  to  arms. 

Their  shivered  swords  are  red  with  rust,  5 

Their  plumed  heads  are  bowed  ; 
Their  haughty  banner,  trailed  in  dust, 

Is  now  their  martial  shroud. 
And  plenteous  funeral  tears  have  washed 

The  red  stains  from  each  brow,  10 

And  the  proud  forms,  by  battle  gashed, 

Are  free  from  anguish  now. 

The  neighing  troop,  the  flashing  blade, 

The  bugle's  stirring  blast, 
The  charge,  the  dreadful  cannonade,  15 

The  din  and  shout,  are  past ; 
Nor  war's  wild  note  nor  glory's  peal 

Shall  thrill  with  fierce  delight 
Those  breasts  that  nevermore  may  feel 

The  rapture  of  the  fight.  20 

Like  the  fierce  northern  hurricane 

That  sweeps  his  great  plateau, 
Flushed  with  the  triumph  yet  to  gain, 

Came  down  the  serried  foe. 
Who  heard  the  thunder  of  the  fray  25 

Break  o'er  the  field  beneath, 
Knew  well  the  watchward  of  that  day 

Was  "Victory  or  Death." 

Long  had  the  doubtful  conflict  raged 

O'er  all  that  stricken  plain,  30 

For  never  fiercer  fight  had  waged 
The  vengeful  blood  of  Spain  ; 


O'HARA  2O I 

And  still  the  storm  of  battle  blew, 

Still  swelled  the  gory  tide  ; 
Not  long,  our  stout  old  chieftain  knew, 

Such  odds  his  strength  could  bide. 

'Twas  in  that  hour  his  stern  command  5 

Called  to  a  martyr's  grave 
The  flower  of  his  beloved  land, 

The  nation's  flag  to  save. 
By  rivers  of  their  fathers'  gore 

His  first-born  laurels  grew,  10 

And  well  he  deemed  the  sons  would  pour 

Their  lives  for  glory  too. 

Full  many  a  norther's  breath  has  swept 

O'er  Angostura's  plain, 
And  long  the  pitying  sky  has  wept  15 

Above  its  mouldered  slain. 
The  raven's  scream,  or  eagle's  flight 

Or  shepherd's  pensive  lay, 
Alone  awakes  each  sullen  height 

That  frowned  o'er  that  dread  fray.  20 

Sons  of  the  Dark  and  Bloody  Ground, 

Ye  must  not  slumber  there, 
Where  stranger  steps  and  tongues  resound 

Along  the  heedless  air. 
Your  own  proud  land's  heroic  soil  25 

Shall  be  your  fitter  grave  : 
She  claims  from  war  his  richest  spoil  — 

The  ashes  of  her  brave. 

Thus  'neath  their  parent  turf  they  rest, 

Far  from  the  gory  field,  30 

Borne  to  a  Spartan  mother's  breast 

On  many  a  bloody  shield  ; 


202  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

The  sunshine  of  their  native  sky 

Smiles  sadly  on  them  here, 
And  kindred  eyes  and  hearts  watch  by 

The  heroes'  sepulcher. 

Rest  on,  embalmed  and  sainted  dead!  5 

Dear  as  the  blood  ye  gave ; 
No  impious  footstep  here  shall  tread 

The  herbage  of  your  grave  ; 
Nor  shall  your  glory  be  forgot 

While  Fame  her  record  keeps,  10 

Or  Honor  points  the  hallowed  spot 

Where  Valor  proudly  sleeps. 

Yon  marble  minstrel's  voiceless  stone 

In  deathless  song  shall  tell, 
When  many  a  vanished  age  hath  flown,  15 

The  story  how  ye  fell ; 
Nor  wreck,  nor  change,  nor  winter's  blight, 

Nor  time's  remorseless  doom, 
Shall  dim  one  ray  of  glory's  light 

That  gilds  your  deathless  tomb.  20 


THOMAS    BUCHANAN    READ 

1822-1872 

READ  was  a  portrait  painter  by  profession.  He  practiced  his  art  in 
various  eastern  cities,  but  he  was  chiefly  identified  with  Philadelphia. 
He  is  the  author  of  several  volumes  of  verse,  and  also  edited  a  collec 
tion  of  verse,  Female  Poets  of  America.  His  most  popular  poem, 
Sheridan's  Ride,  is  spirited  and  patriotic,  but  it  is  lacking  in  poise  and 
finish.  The  poem  given  below  shows  much  higher  poetic  ability. 
Read  was  born  in  Chester  County,  Pennsylvania,  and  died  in  New 
York  city. 


READ  2O3 

DRIFTING 

MY  soul  to-day 

Is  far  away, 
Sailing  the  Vesuvian  Bay ; 

My  winged  boat, 

A  bird  afloat,  5 

Swings  round.the  purple  peaks  remote  :  — 

Round  purple  peaks 

It  sails,  and  seeks 
Blue  inlets  and  their  crystal  creeks, 

Where  high  rocks  throw,  I0 

Through  deeps  below, 
A  duplicated  golden  glow. 

Far,  vague,  and  dim, 

The  mountains  swim  ; 
While  on  Vesuvius'  misty  brim,  15 

With  outstretched  hands, 

The  gray  smoke  stands 
O'erlooking  the  volcanic  lands. 

Here  Ischia  smiles 

O'er  liquid  miles  ;  20 

And  yonder,  bluest  of  the  isles, 

Calm  Capri  waits, 

Her  sapphire  gates 
Beguiling  to  her  bright  estates. 

I  heed  not,  if  25 

My  rippling  skiff 
Float  swift  or  slow  from  cliff  to  cliff ; 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Under  the  walls  of  Paradise.  30 


204  MIDDLE  PERIOD 

Under  the  walls 

Where  swells  and  falls 
The  Bay's  deep  breast  at  intervals^ 

At  peace  I  lie, 

Blown  softly  by  5 

A  cloud  upon  this  liquid  sky. 

The  day,  so  mild, 

Is  Heaven's  own  child, 
With  Earth  and  Ocean  reconciled ; 

The  airs  I  feel  10 

Around  me  steal 
Are  murmuring  to  the  murmuring  keel. 

Over  the  rail 

My  hand  I  trail 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  sail,  15 

A  joy  intense, 

The  cooling  sense 
Glides  down  my  drowsy  indolence. 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies  20 

W^here  Summer  sings  and  never  dies, — 

O'erveiled  with  vines 

She  glows  and  shines 
Among  her  future  oil  and  wines. 

Her  children,  hid 

The  cliffs  amid,  25 

Are  gamboling  with  the  gamboling  kid  ; 

Or  down  the  walls, 

With  tipsy  calls, 
Laugh  on  the  rocks  like  waterfalls. 

The  fisher's  child,  30 

With  tresses  wild, 


THOMPSON  205 

Under  the  smooth,  bright  sand  beguiled, 

With  glowing  lips, 

Sings  as  she  skips, 
Or  gazes  at  the  far-off  ships. 

Yon  deep  bark  goes  5 

Where  traffic  blows, 
From  lands  of  sun  to  lands  of  snows  ; 

This  happier  one,  — 

Its  course  is  run 
From  lands  of  snow  to  lands  of  sun.  10 

O  happy  ship, 

To  rise  and  dip, 
With  the  blue  crystal  at  your  lip ! 

O  happy  crew, 

My  heart  with  you  15 

Sails,  and  sails,  and  sings  anew ! 

No  more,  no  more 

The  worldly  shore 
Upbraids  me  with  its  loud  uproar  : 

With  dreamful  eyes  20 

My  spirit  lies 
Under  the  walls  of  Paradise ! 


JOHN    RANDOLPH    THOMPSON 

1823-1873 

THOMPSON  was  bora  in  Richmond,  Virginia,  and  died  in  New  York 
city.  After  being  graduated  from  the  University  of  Virginia,  he  studied 
law  and  made  his  home  in  Richmond.  He  soon  turned  aside  from  the 
law,  however,  and  became  editor  of  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger, 
which  Poe  had  edited  several  years  earlier.  Under  his  editorship  this 
journal  was  successful.  In  1863  he  went  abroad  in  search  of  health. 
While  in  London  he  wrote  much  for  the  newspapers.  On  his  return  to 


206  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

America,  he  became  the  skillful  literary  editor  of  the  New  York  Even 
ing  Post,  under  the  management  of  William  Cullen  Bryant.  He  held 
this  position  until  his  health  failed.  He  is  buried  in  Hollywood  Ceme 
tery,  Richmond.  His  verse  has  never  been  collected,  and  most  of  it 
has  been  obscured  by  the  lapse  of  time. 

MUSIC    IN    CAMP 

Two  armies  covered  hill  and  plain, 

Where  Rappahannock's  waters 
Ran  deeply  crimsoned  with  the  stain 

Of  battle's  recent  slaughters. 

The  summer  clouds  lay  pitched  like  tents  5 

In  meads  of  heavenly  azure  ; 
And  each  dread  gun  of  the  elements 

Slept  in  its  hid  embrasure. 

The  breeze  so  softly  blew  it  made 

No  forest  leaf  to  quiver,  10 

And  the  smoke  of  the  random  cannonade 

Rolled  slowly  from  the  river. 

And  now,  where  circling  hills  looked  down 

With  cannon  grimly  planted, 
O'er  listless  camp  and  silent  town  15 

The  golden  sunset  slanted. 

\Vhen  on  the  fervid  air  there  came 

A  strain  —  now  rich,  now  tender; 
The  music  seemed  itself  aflame 

With  day's  departing  splendor.  20 

A  Federal  band,  which,  eve  and  morn, 
Played  measures  brave  and  nimble, 

Had  just  struck  up,  with  flute  and  horn 
And  lively  clash  of  cymbal. 


THOMPSON  207 

Down  flocked  the  soldiers  to  the  banks, 

Till,  margined  by  its  pebbles, 
One  wooded  shore  was  blue  with  "  Yanks," 

And  one  was  gray  with  "  Rebels." 

Then  all  was  still,  and  then  the  band,  5 

With  movement  light  and  tricksy, 
Made  stream  and  forest,  hill  and  strand, 

Reverberate  with  "  Dixie." 

The  conscious  stream  with  burnished  glow 

Went  proudly  o'er  its  pebbles,  10 

But  thrilled  throughout  its  deepest  flow 
With  yelling  of  the  Rebels. 

Again  a  pause,  and  then  again 

The  trumpets  pealed  sonorous, 
And  "  Yankee  Doodle  "  was  the  strain  15 

To  which  the  shore  gave  chorus. 

The  laughing  ripple  shoreward  flew, 

To  kiss  the  shining  pebbles  ; 
Loud  shrieked  the  swarming  Boys  in  Blue 

Defiance  to  the  Rebels.  20 

And  yet  once  more  the  bugles  sang 

Above  the  stormy  riot ; 
No  shout  upon  the  evening  rang  — 

There  reigned  a  holy  quiet. 

The  sad,  slow  stream  its  noiseless  flood  25 

Poured  o'er  the  glistening  pebbles  ; 
All  silent  now  the  Yankees  stood, 

And  silent  stood  the  Rebels. 

No  unresponsive  soul  had  heard 

That  plaintive  note's  appealing*,  30 


208  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

So  deeply  "  Home,  Sweet  Home  "  had  stirred 
The  hidden  founts  of  feeling. 

Or  Blue  or  Gray,  the  soldier  sees, 

As  by  the  wand  of  fairy, 
The  cottage  'neath  the  live-oak  trees,  5 

The  cabin  by  the  prairie. 

Or  cold  or  warm,  his  native  skies 

Bend  in  their  beauty  o'er  him  ; 
Seen  through  the  tear-mist  in  his  eyes, 

His  loved  ones  stand  before  him.  10 

As  fades  the  iris  after  rain 

In  April's  tearful  weather, 
The  vision  vanished,  as  the  strain 

And  daylight  died  together. 

But  memory,  waked  by  music's  art,  15 

Expressed  in  simplest  numbers, 
Subdued  the  sternest  Yankee's  heart, 

Made  light  the  Rebel's  slumbers. 

O 

And  fair  the  form  of  music  shines, 

That  bright  celestial  creature, 
Who  still,  mid  war's  embattled  lines, 

Gave  this  one  touch  of  Nature. 


FRANCIS    ORRERY    TICKNOR 

1822-1874 

DR.  TICKNOR  practiced  medicine  in  Georgia,  where  he  was  born  and 
where  he  died.  His  leisure  was  spent  in  cultivating  roses  and  in  writ 
ing  verses.  He  is  best  remembered  by  his  war  poems.  A  volume  of 
his  verse  was  collected  and  edited  by  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne. 


TICKNOR  209 

LITTLE   GIFFEN 

OUT  of  the  focal  and  foremost  fire, 

Out  of  the  hospital  walls  as  dire  ; 

Smitten  of  grape-shot  and  gangrene, 

(Eighteenth  battle,  and  he  sixteen !) 

Specter  !  such  as  you  seldom  see,  5 

Little  Giffen,  of  Tennessee  ! 

"  Take  him  and  welcome  !  "  the  surgeons  said ; 

Little  the  doctor  can  help  the  dead  ! 

So  we  took  him  ;  and  brought  him  where 

The  balm  was  sweet  in  the  summer  air ;  10 

And  we  laid  him  down  on  a  wholesome  bed,  — 

Utter  Lazarus,  heel  to  head  ! 

And  we  watched  the  war  with  abated  breath,  — 

Skeleton  Boy  against  skeleton  Death. 

Months  of  torture,  how  many  such  ?  15 

Weary  weeks  of  the  stick  and  crutch  ; 

And  still  a  glint  of  the  steel-blue  eye 

Told  of  a  spirit  that  wouldn't  die, 

And  didn't.     Nay,  more  !  in  death's  despite 

The  crippled  skeleton  "  learned  to  write."  20 

"  Dear  mother,"  at  first,  of  course  ;  and  then 

"  Dear  captain,"  inquiring  about  the  men. 

Captain's  answer  :  "  Of  eighty-and-five, 

Giffen  and  I  are  left  alive." 

Word  of  gloom  from  the  war,  one  day ;  25 

Johnston  pressed  at  the  front,  they  say. 
Little  Giffen  was  up  and  away  ; 
A  tear  —  his  first  — as  he  bade  good-by, 
Dimmed  the  glint  of  his  steel-blue  eye. 
"  I'll  write,  if  spared  !  "    There  was  news  of  the  fight; 
But  none  of  Giffen.  —  He  did  not  write.  31 

LONG'S  AM.  POEMS —  14 


210  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

I  sometimes  fancy  that,  were  I  king 

Of  the  princely  Knights  of  the  Golden  Ring, 

With  the  song  of  the  minstrel  in  mine  ear, 

And  the  tender  legend  that  trembles  here, 

I'd  give  the  best  on  his  bended  knee,  5 

The  whitest  soul  of  my  chivalry, 

For  "Little  Giffen,"  of  Tennessee. 

GEORGE    HENRY    BOKER 

1823-1890 

DRAMATIST  and  diplomat,  Boker  was  born  in  Philadelphia,  where  he 
spent  most  of  his  life,  and  where  he  died.  After  he  was  graduated  from 
Princeton,  he  went  abroad  for  travel.  He  was  active  with  his  pen  and 
voice  during  the  Civil  War.  In  1871  he  was  appointed  United  States 
minister  to  Turkey,  and  later  served  in  the  same  capacity  in  Russia. 
Boker  published  several  volumes  of  verse,  but  he  was  most  successful 
as  a  writer  of  metrical  dramas.  His  Francesco,  da  Rimini  has  held  the 
stage  for  many  years.  It  not  only  has  poetic  merit,  but  it  shows  knowl 
edge  of  stage-craft.  His  ballads,  especially  the  war  poems,  are  justly 
popular. 

A    BALLAD    OF    SIR   JOHN    FRANKLIN 

O,  WHITHER  sail  you,  Sir  John  Franklin  ? 

Cried  a  whaler  in  Baffin's  Bay. 
To  know  if  between  the  land  and  the  pole  10 

I  may  find  a  broad  sea  way. 

I  charge  you  back,  Sir  John  Franklin, 

As  you  would  live  and  thrive ; 
For  between  the  land  and  the  frozen  pole 

No  man  may  sail  alive.  15 

But  lightly  laughed  the  stout  Sir  John, 

And  spoke  unto  his  men  : 
Half  England  is  wrong,  if  he  be  right ; 

Bear  off  to  westward  then. 


BOKER  2 1 1 

O,  whither  sail  you,  brave  Englishman  ? 

Cried  the  little  Esquimau. 
Between  your  land  and  the  polar  star 

My  goodly  vessels  go. 

Come  down,  if  you  would  journey  there,  5 

The  little  Indian  said  ; 
And  change  your  cloth  for  fur  clothing, 

Your  vessel  for  a  sled. 

But  lightly  laughed  the  stout  Sir  John, 

And  the  crew  laughed  with  him  too  :  —  10 

A  sailor  to  change  from  ship  to  sled, 

I  ween,  were  something  new. 

All  through  the  long,  long  polar  day, 

The  vessels  westward  sped  ; 
And  wherever  the  sail  of  Sir  John  was  blown,  15 

The  ice  gave  way  and  fled  :  — 

Gave  way  with  many  a  hollow  groan, 

And  with  many  a  surly  roar, 
But  it  murmured  and  threatened  on  every  side, 

And  closed  where  he  sailed  before.  20 

Ho !  see  ye  not,  my  merry  men, 

The  broad  and  open  sea  ? 
Bethink  ye  what  the  whaler  said, 
Think  of  the  little  Indian's  sled ! 

The  crew  laughed  out  in  glee.  25 

Sir  John,  Sir  John,  'tis  bitter  cold, 

The  scud  drives  on  the  breeze, 
The  ice  comes  looming  from  the  north, 

The  very  sunbeams  freeze. 


212  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

Bright  summer  goes,  dark  winter  comes,  — 

We  cannot  rule  the  year ; 
But  long  ere  summer's  sun  goes  down, 

On  yonder  sea  we'll  steer. 

The  dripping  icebergs  dipped  and  rose,  5 

And  floundered  down  the  gale  ; 
The  ships  were  stayed,  the  yards  were  manned, 

And  furled  the  useless  sail. 

The  summer's  gone,  the  winter's  come, — 

We  sail  not  on  yonder  sea :  10 

Why  sail  we  not,  Sir  John  Franklin  ?  — 
A  silent  man  was  he. 

The  summer  goes,  the  winter  comes, — 

We  cannot  rule  the  year : 
I  ween  we  cannot  rule  the  ways,  I5 

Sir  John,  wherein  we'd  steer. 

The  cruel  ice  came  floating  on, 

And  closed  beneath  the  lee, 
Till  the  thickening  waters  dashed  no  more : 
'Twas  ice  around,  behind,  before—  20 

My  God  !  there  is  no  sea  ! 

What  think  you  of  the  whaler  now  ? 

What  of  the  Esquimau  ? 
A  sled  were  better  than  a  ship, 

To  cruise  through  ice  and  snow.  25 

Down  sank  the  baleful  crimson  sun, 

The  northern  light  came  out, 
And  glared  upon  the  ice-bound  ships, 

And  shook  its  spears  about. 


BOKER  2 1 3 

The  snow  came  down,  storm  breeding  storm, 

And  on  the  decks  was  laid, 
Till  the  weary  sailor,  sick  at  heart, 

Sank  down  beside  his  spade. 

Sir  John,  the  night  is  black  and  long,  5 

The  hissing  wind  is  bleak, 
The  hard,  green  ice  as  strong  as  death  :  — 

I  prithee,  Captain,  speak! 

The  night  is  neither  bright  nor  short, 

The  singing  breeze  is  cold,—  10 

The  ice  is  not  so  strong  as  hope, 

The  heart  of  man  is  bold  ! 

What  hope  can  scale  this  icy  wall, 

High  over  the  main  flagstaff  ? 

Above  the  ridges  the  wolf  and  bear  15 

Look  down,  with  a  patient,  settled  stare, 

Look  down  on  us  and  laugh. 

The  summer  went,  the  winter  came,  — 

We  could  not  rule  the  year ; 

But  summer  will  melt  the  ice  again,  20 

And  open  a  path  to  the  sunny  main, 

Whereon  our  ships  shall  steer. 

The  winter  went,  the  summer  went, 

The  winter  came  around  ; 

But  the  hard,  green  ice  was  strong  as  death,  25 

And  the  voice  of  hope  sank  to  a  breath, 

Yet  caught  at  every  sound. 

Hark  !  heard  you  not  the  noise  of  guns  ?  — 

And  there,  and  there,  again  ? 
'Tis  some  uneasy  iceberg's  roar,  30 

As  he  turns  in  the  frozen  main. 


214  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

Hurra  !  Hurra  !  the  Esquimaux 

Across  the  ice  fields  steal : 
God  give  them  grace  for  their  charity !  — 

Ye  pray  for  the  silly  seal. 

Sir  John,  where  are  the  English  fields,  5 

And  where  are  the  English  trees, 
And  where  are  the  little  English  flowers 

That  open  in  the  breeze  ? 

Be  still,  be  still,  my  brave  sailors ! 

You  shall  see  the  fields  again,  T0 

And  smell  the  scent  of  the  opening  flowers, 

The  grass,  and  the  waving  grain. 

Oh  !  when  shall  I  see  my  orphan  child  ? 

My  Mary  waits  for  me. 
Oh  !  when  shall  I  see  my  old  mother,  i5 

And  pray  at  her  trembling  knee  ? 

Be  still,  be  still,  my  brave  sailors ! 

Think  not  such  thoughts  again. 
But  a  tear  froze  slowly  on  his  cheek : 

He  thought  of  Lady  Jane.  20 

Ah  !  bitter,  bitter  grows  the  cold, 

The  ice  grows  more  and  more  ; 
More  settled  stare  the  wolf  and  bear, 

More  patient  than  before. 

O,  think  you,  good  Sir  John  Franklin,  25 

We'll  ever  see  the  land  ? 
'Twas  cruel  to  send  us  here  to  starve, 

Without  a  helping  hand. 


BOKER  2 1  5 

'Twas  cruel,  Sir  John,  to  send  us  here, 

So  far  from  help  or  home, 
To  starve  and  freeze  on  this  lonely  sea : 
I  ween  the  lords  of  the  Admiralty 

Would  rather  send  than  come.  5 

Oh  !  whether  we  starve  to  death  alone, 

Or  sail  to  our  own  country, 
We  have  done  what  man  has  never  done  — 
The  truth  is  founded,  the  secret  won  — 

We  passed  the  Northern  Sea  !  10 

DIRGE   FOR   A    SOLDIER 

CLOSE  his  eyes  ;  his  work  is  done  ! 
What  to  him  is  friend  or  foeman, 
Rise  of  moon,  or  set  of  sun, 

Hand  of  man,  or  kiss  of  woman  ? 

Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low,  15 

In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know  : 
Lay  him  low ! 

As  man  may,  he  fought  his  fight, 

Proved  his  truth  by  his  endeavor ;  20 

Let  him  sleep  in  solemn  night, 
Sleep  forever  and  forever. 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know  :  25 

Lay  him  low ! 

Fold  him  in  his  country's  stars, 

Roll  the  drum  and  fire  the  volley! 
What  to  him  are  all  our  wars, 

What  but  death  bemocking  folly  ?  30 


2l6  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
fn  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know  : 
Lay  him  low ! 

Leave  him  to  God's  watching  eye,  5 

Trust  him  to  the  hand  that  made  him. 
Mortal  love  weeps  idly  by : 

God  alone  has  power  to  aid  him. 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  !  10 

What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know : 
Lay  him  low ! 

( 

BAYARD    TAYLOR 

1825-1878 

VERY  few  American  literary  men  have  led  such  a  restless  and  labori 
ous  life  as  Bayard  Taylor.  He  was  born  and  brought  up  in  a  small 
Quaker  town  in  Pennsylvania.  From  his  early  youth  he  was  ambitious 
to  be  a  poet  and  to  travel.  His  verses  began  to  appear  in  newspapers 
when  he  was  sixteen,  and  he  published  a  volume  of  poems  before  he 
was  twenty.  He  tramped  through  Europe  for  two  years,  enduring 
many  hardships,  and  wrote  a  popular  book  about  his  experiences.  He 
also  lived  the  life  of  a  gold  digger  in  California.  Whatever  he  saw  or 
experienced  he  put  into  newspaper  articles  or  books  of  travel ;  and  few 
men  traveled  so  much.  Many  novels  and  several  volumes  of  verse  also 
came  from  his  pen.  He  was  tireless,  quick-witted,  versatile,  and  had 
a  wide  circle  of  friends  and  acquaintances  among  the  brighter  spirits 
of  his  time.  In  1878  he  was  appointed  United  States  minister  to  Ger 
many,  where  he  died  not  long  after  his  arrival,  having  heroically  endured 
great  physical  pain. 

BEDOUIN    SONG 

FROM  the  Desert  I  come  to  thee 
On  a  stallion  shod  with  fire ; 


TAYLOR  217 

And  the  winds  are  left  behind 

In  the  speed  of  my  desire. 
Under  thy  window  I  stand, 

And  the  midnight  hears  my  cry  : 
I  love  thee,  I  love  but  thee,  5 

With  a  love  that  shall  not  die 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 

Book  unfold  !  10 

Look  from  thy  window  and  see 

My  passion  and  my  pain  ; 
I  lie  on  the  sands  below, 

And  I  faint  in  thy  disdain. 
Let  the  night  winds  touch  thy  brow  15 

With  the  heat  of  my  burning  sigh, 
And  melt  thee  to  hear  the  vow 
Of  a  love  that  shall  not  die 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 

And  the  stars  are  old,  20 

And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold  ! 

My  steps  are  nightly  driven, 
By  the  fever  in  my  breast, 
To  hear  from  thy  lattice  breathed  25 

The  word  that  shall  give  me  rest. 
Open  the  door  of  thy  heart, 

And  open  thy  chamber  door, 
And  my  kisses  shall  teach  thy  lips 

The  love  that  shall  fade  no  more  30 

Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold! 


2l8  MIDDLE   PERIOD' 

AMERICA 

FROM   THE   NATIONAL   ODE,  JULY  4,   1876 

FORESEEN  in  the  vision  of  sages, 

Foretold  when  martyrs  bled, 
She  was  born  of  the  longing  of  ages, 
By  the  truth  of  the  noble  dead 
And  the  faith  of  the  living  fed  !  5 

No  blood  in  her  lightest  veins 
Frets  at  remembered  chains, 
Nor  shame  of  bondage  has  bowed  her  head. 
In  her  form  and  features  still 

The  unblenching  Puritan  will,  10 

Cavalier  honor,  Huguenot  grace, 
The  Quaker  truth  and  sweetness, 
And  the  strength  of  the  danger-girdled  race 
Of  Holland,  blend  in  a  proud  completeness. 
From  the  homes  of  all,  where  her  being  began,  15 

She  took  what  she  gave  to  Man ; 
Justice,  that  knew  no  station, 

Belief,  as  soul  decreed, 
Free  air  for  aspiration, 
Free  force  for  independent  deed  !  20 

She  takes,  but  to  give  again, 
As  the  sea  returns  the  rivers  in  rain ; 
And  gathers  the  chosen  of  her  seed 
From  the  hunted  of  every  crown  and  creed. 

Her  Germany  dwells  by  a  gentler  Rhine  ;  25 

Her  Ireland  sees  the  old  sunburst  shine ; 
Her  France  pursues  some  stream  divine ; 
Her  Norway  keeps  his  mountain  pine ; 
Her  Italy  waits  by  the  western  brine ; 

And,  broad-based  under  all,  3° 

Is  planted  England's  oaken-hearted  mood, 
As  rich  in  fortitude 


STODDARD  2IQ 

As  e'er  went  worldward  from  the  island-wall ! 

Fused  in  her  candid  light, 
To  one  strong  race  all  races  here  unite ; 
Tongues  melt  in  hers,  hereditary  foemen 
Forget  their  sword  and  slogan,  kith  and  clan.  5 

'Twas  glory,  once,  to  be  a  Roman : 
She  makes  it  glory,  now,  to  be  a  man ! 

RICHARD    HENRY    STODDARD 

1825-1903 

STODDARD  was  born  at  Hingham,  Massachusetts.  His  father  was  a 
sea  captain,  and  was  lost  at  sea.  He  removed  to  New  York  in  1835 
with  his  mother,  where  he  lived  the  greater  part  of  his  long  and  busy 
life.  His  early  education  was  scant,  but  he  became  a  diligent  reader  of 
the  best  English  poets.  He  soon  began  to  contribute  both  prose  and 
verse  to  the  newspapers  and  magazines,  and  this  was  kept  up  through 
a  long  series  of  years.  He  is  the  author  of  many  volumes  of  poems 
and  essays,  but  during  his  maturer  years  his  reputation  rested  mainly 
upon  his  work  as  a  journalist.  For  over  twenty  years  he  was  the  liter 
ary  editor  of  the  New  York  Mail  and  Express.  In  his  last  years  he 
was  a  venerable  and  conspicuous  figure  in  the  literary  circles  of  New 
York. 

ABRAHAM    LINCOLN1 

NOT  as  when  some  great  Captain  falls 
In  battle,  where  his  Country  calls, 

Beyond  the  struggling  lines  10 

That  push  his  dread  designs 

To  doom,  by  some  stray  ball  struck  dead  : 
Or,  in  the  last  charge,  at  the  head 

Of  his  determined  men, 

Who  must  be  victors  then.  15 

1  From  Poetical  Writings.  Copyright,  1880.  Published  by  Charles  Scrib- 
ner's  Sons. 


220  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

Nor  as  when  sink  the  civic  great, 
The  safer  pillars  of  the  State, 

Whose  calm,  mature,  wise  words 

Suppress  the  need  of  swords. 

With  no  such  tears  as  e'er  were  shed  5 

Above  the  noblest  of  our  dead 

Uo  we  to-day  deplore 

The  Man  that  is  no  more. 

Our  sorrow  hath  a  wider  scope, 

Too  strange  for  fear,  too  vast  for  hope,  10 

A  wonder,  blind  and  dumb, 

That  waits  —  what  is  to  come  ! 

Not  more  astounded  had  we  been 
If  Madness,  that  dark  night,  unseen, 

Had  in  our  chambers  crept,  15 

And  murdered  while  we  slept ! 

We  woke  to  find  a  mourning  earth, 
Our  Lares  shivered  on  the  hearth, 

The  roof-tree  fallen,  all 

That  could  affright,  appall !  20 

Such  thunderbolts,  in  other  lands, 
Have  smitten  the  rod  from  royal  hands, 

But  spared,  with  us,  till  now, 

Each  laureled  Caesar's  brow. 

No  Caesar  he  whom  we  lament,  25 

A  Man  without  a  precedent, 

Sent,  it  would  seem,  to  do 

His  work,  and  perish,  too. 


STODDARD  221 

Not  by  the  weary  cares  of  State, 

The  endless  tasks,  which  will  not  wait, 

Which,  often  done  in  vain, 

Must  yet  be  done  again  : 

Not  in  the  dark,  wild  tide  of  war,  5 

Which  rose  so  high,  and  rolled  so  far, 

Sweeping  from  sea  to  sea 

In  awful  anarchy  : 

Four  fateful  years  of  mortal  strife, 

Which  slowly  drained  the  nation's  life,  10 

(Yet  for  each  drop  that  ran 

There  sprang  an  armed  man !) 

Not  then  ;  but  when,  by  measures  meet, 
By  victory,  and  by  defeat, 

By  courage,  patience,  skill,  15 

The  people's  fixed  "  We  will !  " 

Had  pierced,  had  crushed  Rebellion  dead, 
Without  a  hand,  without  a  head, 

At  last,  when  all  was  well, 

He  fell,  O  how  he  fell !  20 

The  time,  the  place,  the  stealing  shape, 
The  coward  shot,  the  swift  escape, 

The  wife  — the  widow's  scream,  — 

It  is  a  hideous  Dream  ! 

A  dream  ?     What  means  this  pageant,  then  ?  25 

These  multitudes  of  solemn  men, 

Who  speak  not  when  they  meet, 

But  throng  the  silent  street  ? 


222  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

The  flags  half-mast  that  late  so  high 
Flaunted  at  each  new  victory? 

(The  stars  no  brightness  shed, 

But  bloody  looks  the  red  !) 

The  black  festoons  that  stretch  for  miles,  3 

And  turn  the  streets  to  funeral  aisles  ? 

(No  house  too  poor  to  show 

The  nation's  badge  of  woe.) 

The  cannon's  sudden,  sullen  boom, 

The  bells  that  toll  of  death  and  doom,  10 

The  rolling  of  the  drums, 

The  dreadful  car  that  comes  ? 

Cursed  be  the  hand  that  fired  the  shot, 
The  frenzied  brain  that  hatched  the  plot, 

Thy  country's  Father  slain  15 

By  thee,  thou  worse  than  Cain  1 

Tyrants  have  fallen  by  such  as  thou, 
And  good  hath  followed  —  may  it  now  I 

(God  lets  bad  instruments    . 

Produce  the  best  events.)  20 

But  he,  the  man  we  mourn  to-day, 
No  tyrant  was  :  so  mild  a  sway 

In  one  such  weight  who  bore 

Was  never  known  before. 

Cool  should  he  be,  of  balanced  powers,  25 

The  ruler  of  a  race  like  ours, 

Impatient,  headstrong,  wild, 

The  Man  to  guide  the  Child. 


STODDARD  223 

And  this  he  was,  who  most  unfit 
(So  hard  the  sense  of  God  to  hit), 

Did  seem  to  fill  his  place  ; 

With  such  a  homely  face, 

Such  rustic  manners,  speech  uncouth,  5 

(That  somehow  blundered  out  the  truth), 

Untried,  untrained  to  bear 

The  more  than  kingly  care. 

Ah  !    And  his  genius  put  to  scorn 

The  proudest  in  the  purple  born,  J0 

Whose  wisdom  never  grew 

To  what,  untaught,  he  knew, 

The  People,  of  whom  he  was  one  : 
No  gentleman,  like  Washington, 

(Whose  bones,  methinks,  make  room,  15 

To  have  him  in  their  tomb  !) 

A  laboring  man,  with  horny  hands, 
Who  swung  the  ax,  who  tilled  his  lands, 

Who  shrank  from  nothing  new, 

But  did  as  poor  men  do.  20 

One  of  the  People  !     Born  to  be 
Their  curious  epitome ; 

To  share  yet  rise  above 

Their  shifting  hate  and  love. 

O  honest  face,  which  all  men  knew !  25 

O  tender  heart,  but  known  to  few  1 

O  wonder  of  the  age, 

Cut  off  by  tragic  rage  1 


224  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

Peace  !     Let  the  long  procession  come, 
For  hark,  the  mournful,  muffled  drum, 

The  trumpet's  wail  afar, 

And  see,  the  awful  car ! 

Peace  !     Let  the  sad  procession  go,  5 

While  cannon  boom  and  bells  toll  slow. 

And  go,  thou  sacred  car, 

Bearing  our  woe  afar  ! 

Go,  darkly  borne,  from  State  to  State, 

Whose  loyal,  sorrowing  cities  wait  10 

To  honor  all  they  can 

The  dust  of  that  good  man. 

Go,  grandly  borne,  with  such  a  train 
As  greatest  kings  might  die  to  gain. 

The  just,  the  wise,  the  brave,  15 

Attend  thee  to  the  grave. 

And  you,  the  soldiers  of  our  wars, 
Bronzed  veterans,  grim  with  noble  scars, 

Salute  him  once  again, 

Your  late  commander  —  slain  1  20 

So  sweetly,  sadly,  sternly  goes 
The  Fallen  to  his  last  repose. 

Beneath  no  mighty  dome, 

But  in  his  modest  home  ; 

The  churchyard  where  his  children  rest,  25 

The  quiet  spot  that  suits  him  best, 

There  shall  his  grave  be  made, 

And  there  his  bones  be  laid. 


FINCH  225 

And  there  his  countrymen  shall  come, 
With  memory  proud,  with  pity  dumb, 

And  strangers  far  and  near, 

For  many  and  many  a  year. 

For  many  a  year  and  many  an  age,  5 

While  History  on  her  ample  page 

The  virtues  shall  enroll 

Of  that  Paternal  Soul. 

FRANCIS    MILES    FINCH 

1827- 

THE  author  of  this  very  popular  poem  was  born  at  Ithaca,  New  York. 
In  1849  he  was  graduated  from  Yale,  where  he  was  the  class  poet.  After 
practicing  law  in  Ithaca  for  several  years,  he  was  elected  a  justice  of 
the  New  York  Court  of  Appeals.  In  1892  he  was  appointed  dean  of 
the  law  school  of  Cornell  University. 

THE    BLUE   AND    THE   GRAY 

BY  the  flow  of  the  inland  river, 

Whence  the  fleets  of  iron  have  fled,  10 

Where  the  blades  of  the  grave  grass  quiver, 
Asleep  are  the  ranks  of  the  dead: 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day; 
Under  the  one,  the  Blue,  15 

Under  the  other,  the  Gray. 

These  in  the  robings  of  glory, 

Those  in  the  gloom  of  defeat, 
All  with  the  battle-blood  gory, 

In  the  dusk  of  eternity  meet :  20 

LONG'S  AM.  POEMS — 15 


226  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day  ; 
Under  the  laurel,  the  Blue, 

Under  the  willow,  the  Gray. 

From  the  silence  of  sorrowful  hours  5 

The  desolate  mourners  go, 
Lovingly  laden  with  flowers 

Alike  for  the  friend  and  the  foe : 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day;  10 

Under  the  roses,  the  Blue, 

Under  the  lilies,  the  Gray. 

So  with  an  equal  splendor, 

The  morning  sun  rays  fall, 

With  a  touch  impartially  tender,  15 

On  the  blossoms  blooming  for  all : 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day  ; 
Broidered  with  gold,  the  Blue, 

Mellowed  with  gold,  the  Gray.  20 

So,  when  the  summer  calleth, 
On  forest  and  field  of  grain, 
With  an  equal  murmur  falleth 
The  cooling  drip  of  the  rain  : 

Under  the  sod  and  the  dew,  25 

Waiting  the  judgment  day  ; 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Blue, 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Gray. 

Sadly,  but  not  with  upbraiding, 

The  generous  deed  was  done,  30 

In  the  storm  of  the  years  that  are  fading 

No  braver  battle  was  won  : 


TROWBRIDGE  22  7 

Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day  ; 
Under  the  blossoms,  the  Blue, 

Under  the  garlands,  the  Gray. 

No  more  shall  the  war  cry  sever,  5 

Or  the  winding  rivers  be  red ; 
They  banish  our  anger  forever 

When  they  laurel  the  graves  of  our  dead  ! 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day  :  10 

Love  and  tears  for  the  Blue, 
Tears  and  love  for  the  Gray. 


.JOHN    TOWNSEND    TROWBRIDGE 

1827- 

A  POPULAR  writer  of  juvenile  fiction,  as  well  as  the  author  of  two  or 
three  volumes  of  verse,  Trowbridge  was  born  on  a  farm  at  Ogden,  New 
York.  His  educational  advantages  were  not  of  the  best ;  but  he  showed 
early  an  aptitude  for  journalism.  He  was  in  New  York  for  a  time,  but 
soon  removed  to  Boston,  where  he  has  spent  a  long  life  in  editorial 
and  other  literary  work. 

THE   VAGABONDS 

WE  are  two  travelers,  Roger  and  I. 

Roger's  my  dog.  —  Come  here,  you  scamp  ! 
Jump  for  the  gentleman,  —  mind  your  eye  !  15 

Over  the  table,  —  look  out  for  the  lamp  ! 
The  rogue  is  growing  a  little  old  ; 

Five  years  we've  tramped  through  wind  and  weather, 
And  slept  outdoors  when  nights  were  cold, 

And  ate  and  drank  —  and  starved  —  together.  20 


228  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

We've  learned  what  comfort  is,  I  tell  you ! 

A  bed  on  the  floor,  a  bit  of  rosin, 
A  fire  to  thaw  our  thumbs  (poor  fellow ! 

The  paw  he  holds  up  there's  been  frozen), 
Plenty  of  catgut  for  my  fiddle  5 

(This  outdoor  business  is  bad  for  strings), 
Then  a  few  nice  buckwheats  hot  from  the  griddle, 

And  Roger  and  I  set  up  for  kings  1^ 

No,  thank  ye,  Sir,  —  I  never  drink ; 

Roger  and  I  are  exceedingly  moral, —  10 

Aren't  we,  Roger  ?  —  See  him  wink  !  — 

Well,  something  hot,  then,  —  we  won't  quarrel. 
He's  thirsty,  too,  — see  him  nod  his  head  ? 

What  a  pity,  Sir,  that  dogs  can't  talk ! 
He  understands  every  wrord  that's  said,  —  15 

And  he  knows  good  milk  from  water-and-chalk. 

The  truth  is,  Sir,  now  I  reflect, 

I've  been  so  sadly  given  to  grog, 
I  wonder  I've  not  lost  the  respect 

(Here's  to  you,  Sir  !)  even  of  my  dog.  20 

But  he  sticks  by,  through  thick  and  thin  ; 

And  this  old  coat,  with  its  empty  pockets, 
And  rags  that  smell  of  tobacco  and  gin, 

He'll  follow  while  he  has  eyes  in  his  sockets. 

There  isn't  another  creature  living  25 

Would  do  it,  and  prove,  through  every  disaster, 
So  fond,  so  faithful,  and  so  forgiving, 

To  such  a  miserable,  thankless  master ! 
No,  Sir  !  —  see  him  wag  his  tail  and  grin  ! 

By  George  !  it  makes  my  old  eyes  water !  30 

That  is,  there's  something  in  this  gin 

That  chokes  a  fellow.     But  no  matter  ! 


TROWBRIDGE  22Q 

We'll  have  some  music,  if  you're  willing, 

And  Roger  (hem  !  what  a  plague  a  cough  is,  Sir !) 
Shall  march  a  little  —     Start,  you  villain  ! 

Paws  up  !     Eyes  front !     Salute  your  officer  ! 
'Bout  face  !     Attention  !     Take  your  rifle  !  5 

(Some  dogs  have  arms,  you  see !)     Now  hold  your 
Cap  while  the  gentlemen  give  a  trifle, 

To  aid  a  poor  old  patriot  soldier ! 

March  !     Halt !     Now  show  how  the  rebel  shakes 

When  he  stands  up  to  hear  his  sentence.  10 

Now  tell  us  how  many  drams  it  takes 

To  honor  a  jolly  new  acquaintance. 
Five  yelps,  —  that's  five  ;  he's  mighty  knowing! 

The  night's  before  us,  fill  the  glasses  !  — 
Quick,  Sir  !     I'm  ill,  —  my  brain  is  going  !  —  15 

Some  brandy,  —  thank  you,  —  there  !  —  it  passes  ! 

Why  not  reform  ?     That's  easily  said  ; 

But  I've  gone  through  such  wretched  treatment, 
Sometimes  forgetting  the  taste  of  bread, 

And  scarce  remembering  what  meat  meant,  20 

That  my  poor  stomach's  past  reform  ; 

And  there  are  times  when,  mad  with  thinking, 
I'd  sell  out  heaven  for  something  warm 

To  prop  a  horrible  inward  sinking. 

Is  there  a  way  to  forget  to  think  ?  25 

At  your  age,  Sir,  home,  fortune,  friends, 
A  dear  girl's  love,  —  but  I  took  to  drink,  — 

The  same  old  story ;  you  know  how  it  ends. 
If  you  could  have  seen  these  classic  features,  — 

You  needn't  laugh,  Sir  ;  they  were  not  then  30 

Such  a  burning  libel  on  God's  creatures  : 

I  was  one  of  your  handsome  men  ! 


230  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

If  you  had  seen  her,  so  fair  and  young, 

Whose  head  was  happy  on  this  breast! 
If  you  could  have  heard  the  songs  I  sung 

When  the  wine  went  round,  you  wouldn't  have  guessed 
That  ever  I,  Sir,  should  be  straying  5 

From  door  to  door,  with  fiddle  and  dog, 
Ragged  and  penniless,  and  playing 

To  you  to-night  for  a  glass  of  grog ! 

She's  married  since,  —  a  parson's  wife  : 

'Twas  better  for  her  that  we  should  part,  10 

Better  the  soberest,  prosiest  life 

Than  a  blasted  home  and  a  broken  heart. 
I  have  seen  her  ?     Once  :  I  was  weak  and  spent 

On  the  dusty  road  :  a  carriage  stopped  : 
But  little  she  dreamed,  as  on  she  went,  15 

Who  kissed  the  coin  that  her  fingers  dropped  I 

You've  set  me  talking,  Sir;  I'm  sorry; 

It  makes  me  wild  to  think  of  the  change ! 
What  do  you  care  for  a  beggar's  story  ? 

Is  it  amusing?  you  find  it  strange?  20 

I  had  a  mother  so  proud  of  me  ! 

'Twas  well  she  died  before.  —  Do  you  know 
If  the  happy  spirits  in  heaven  can  see 

The  ruin  and  wretchedness  here  below  ? 

Another  glass,  and  strong,  to  deaden  25 

This  pain  ;  then  Roger  and  I  will  start. 
i  wonder,  has  he  such  a  lumpish,  leaden, 

Aching  thing  in  place  of  a  heart? 
He  is  sad  sometimes,  and  would  weep,  if  he  could, 

No  doubt  remembering  things  that  were,  —  30 

A  virtuous  kennel,  with  plenty  of  food, 

And  himself  a  sober,  respectable  cur. 


PRESTON  231 

I'm  better  now  ;  that  glass  was  warming.  — 

You  rascal !  limber  your  lazy  feet ! 
We  must  be  fiddling  and  performing 

For  supper  and  bed,  or  starve  in  the  street.  — 
Not  a  very  gay  life  to  lead,  you  think  ?  5 

But  soon  we  shall  go  where  lodgings  are  free, 
And  the  sleepers  need  neither  victuals  nor  drink :  — 

The  sooner,  the  better  for  Roger  and  me ! 

MARGARET   JUNKIN    PRESTON 

1820-1897 

MRS.  PRESTON  was  the  daughter  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Junkin,  founder  of 
Lafayette  College.  She  was  married  to  Colonel  John  T.  L.  Preston,  of 
Lexington,  Virginia,  where  she  spent  the  greater  part  of  her  life.  For 
many  years  she  was  a  frequent  contributor,  both  in  prose  and  verse,  to 
the  periodicals  of  the  day.  Her  verses  have  been  gathered  into  several 
volumes.  She  was  born  in  Philadelphia,  and  died  in  Baltimore. 

A  GRAVE   IN  HOLLYWOOD  CEMETERY,  RICHMOND 

(J.  R.  T.) 

I  READ  the  marble-lettered  name, 

And  half  in  bitterness  I  said  :  10 

"  As  Dante  from  Ravenna  came, 

Our  poet  came  from  exile  —  dead." 
And  yet,  had  it  been  asked  of  him 

Where  he  would  rather  lay  his  head, 
This  spot  he  would  have  chosen.     Dim  15 

The  city's  hum  drifts  o'er  his  grave, 
And  green  above  the  hollies  wave 
Their  jagged  leaves,  as  when  a  boy, 

On  blissful  summer  afternoons,    • 

He  came  to  sing  the  birds  his  runes,  20 

And  tell  the  river  of  his  joy. 


232  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

Who  dreams  that  in  his  wanderings  wide, 
By  stern  misfortunes  tossed  and  driven, 
His  soul's  electric  strands  were  riven 
From  home  and  country  ?     Let  betide 
What  might,  what  would,  his  boast,  his  pride,  5 

Was  in  his  stricken  motherland, 

That  could  but  bless  and  bid  him  go, 
Because  no  crust  was  in  her  hand 

To  stay  her  children's  need.     We  know 
The  mystic  cable  sank  too  deep  10 

For  surface  storm  or  stress  to  strain, 
Or  from  his  answering  heart  to  keep 

The  spark  from  flashing  back  again  ! 

Think  of  the  thousand  mellow  rhymes, 

The  pure  idyllic  passion-flowers,  15 

Wherewith,  in  far-gone,  happier  times, 

He  garlanded  this  South  of  ours. 
Provencal-like,  he  wrandered  long, 

And  sang  at  many  a  stranger's  board, 
Yet  'twas  Virginia's  name  that  poured  20 

The  tenderest  pathos  through  his  song. 
We  owe  the  Poet  praise  and  tears, 

Whose  ringing  ballad  sends  the  brave, 
Bold  Stuart  riding  down  the  years  — 

What  have  we  given  him  ?     Just  a  grave  !  25 


STEPHEN    COLLINS    FOSTER 

1826-1864 

FOSTER  was  born  in  Pittsburg,  Pennsylvania,  and  died  in  New  York 
city.  He  was  a  musteal  composer,  and  wrote  both  the  music  and  the 
words  of  Old  Folks  at  Home,  The  Suisuanee  River,  and  many  other 
popular  negro  melodies. 


I 


FOSTER 


233 


MY   OLD    KENTUCKY   HOME,   GOOD  NIGHT 

THE  sun  shines  bright  in  the  old  Kentucky  home  ; 

JTis  summer,  the  darkies  are  gay  ; 
The  corn-top's  ripe,  and  the  meadow's  in  the  bloom, 

While  the  birds  make  music  all  the  day. 
The  young  folks  roll  on  the  little  cabin  floor,  5 

All  merry,  all  happy  and  bright ; 

By-'n'-by  hard  times  comes  a-knocking  at  the  door  :  — 
Then  my  old  Kentucky  home,  good  night ! 
Weep  no  more,  my  lady, 

O,  weep  no  more  to-day !  I0 

We  will  sing  one  song  for  the  old  Kentucky  home, 
For  the  old  Kentucky  home,  far  away. 

They  hunt  no  more  for  the  possum  and  the  coon, 

On  the  meadow,  the  hill,  and  the  shore ; 
They  sing  no  more  by  the  glimmer  of  the  moon,  15 

On  the  bench  by  the  old  cabin  door. 
The  day  goes  by  like  a  shadow  o'er  the  heart, 

With  sorrow,  where  all  was  delight ; 
The  time  has  come  when  the  darkies  have  to  part :  — 

Then  my  old  Kentucky  home,  good  night !  2o 

The  head  must  bow,  and  the  back  will  have  to  bend, 

Wherever  the  darky  may  go  ; 
A  few  more  days,  and  the  trouble  all  will  end, 

In  the  field  where  the  sugar  canes  grow. 
A  few  more  days  for  to  tote  the  weary  load,  25 

No  matter,  'twill  never  be  light ; 
A  few  more  days  till  we  totter  on  the  road :  — 
Then  my  old  Kentucky  home,  good  night  1 
Weep  no  more,  my  lady, 

O,  weep  no  more  to-day!  30 

We  will  sing  one  song  for  the  old  Kentucky  home, 
For  the  old  Kentucky  home,  far  away. 


234  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

WILLIAM    HAINES    LYTLE 

1826-1863 

GENERAL  LYTLE  was  born  at  Cincinnati,  Ohio,  and  fell  at  the  battle 
of  Chickamauga,  in  1863.  He  had  also  served  in  the  Mexican  War.  For 
gallant  conduct  in  battle  he  was  made  brigadier  general  of  volunteers. 
A  volume  of  his  poems  was  published  after  his  death. 

ANTONY   TO    CLEOPATRA 

I  AM  dying,  Egypt,  dying  ! 

Ebbs  the  crimson  life-tide  fast, 
And  the  dark  Plutonian  shadows 

Gather  on  the  evening  blast ; 
Let  thine  arm,  O  Queen,  enfold  me,  5 

Hush  thy  sobs  and  bow  thine  ear, 
Listen  to  the  great  heart  secrets 

Thou,  and  thou  alone,  must  hear. 

Though  my  scarred  and  veteran  legions 

Bear  their  eagles  high  no  more,  10 

And  my  wrecked  and  scattered  galleys 

Strew  dark  Actium's  fatal  shore  ; 
Though  no  glittering  guards  surround  me, 

Prompt  to  do  their  master's  will, 
I  must  perish  like  a  Roman,  15 

Die  the  great  Triumvir  still. 

Let  not  Caesar's  servile  minions 

Mock  the  lion  thus  laid  low ; 
'Twas  no  foeman's  arm  that  felled  him, 

'Twas  his  own  that  struck  the  blow :  20 

His  who,  pillowed  on  thy  bosom, 

Turned  aside  from  glory's  ray  — 
His  who,  drunk  with  thy  caresses, 

Madly  threw  a  world  away. 


TIMROD  235 

Should  the  base  plebeian  rabble 

Dare  assail  my  name  at  Rome, 
Where  the  noble  spouse  Octavia 

Weeps  within  her  widowed  home, 
Seek  her  ;  say  the  gods  bear  witness,  —  5 

Altars,  augurs,  circling  wings,  — 
That  her  blood,  with  mine  commingled, 

Yet  shall  mount  the  thrones  of  kings. 

And  for  thee,  star-eyed  Egyptian  — 

Glorious  sorceress  of  the  Nile  !  10 

Light  the  path  to  Stygian  horrors, 

With  the  splendor  of  thy  smile  ; 
Give  the  Caesar  crowns  and  arches, 

Let  his  brow  the  laurel  twine  : 
I  can  scorn  the  senate's  triumphs,  15 

Triumphing  in  love  like  thine. 

I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying ! 

Hark  !  the  insulting  foeman's  cry  ; 
They  are  coming  —  quick,  my  falchion! 

Let  me  front  them  ere  I  die.  20 

Ah,  no  more  amid  the  battle 

Shall  my  heart  exulting  swell ; 
Isis  and  Osiris  guard  thee  — 

Cleopatra  —  Rome  —  farewell  1 

HENRY    TIMROD 

1829-1867 

TIMROD  was  born  in  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  where  his  father 
was  a  bookbinder  and  a  writer  of  verses.  He  studied  for  a  time  in 
the  University  of  Georgia,  and  then  began  the  study  of  law,  but  gave 
it  up  for  teaching.  During  the  Civil  War  he  was  war  correspondent 
of  the  Charleston  Mercury,  and  also  wrote  stirring  war  verses.  After 


236  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

the  war  he  fell  a  prey  to  poverty  and  disease,  and  died  of  consumption 
at  Columbia.  A  volume  of  his  poems  appeared  in  1860,  and  it  was 
republished  several  years  afterward,  with  a  memoir  of  the  author  by 
Paul  H.  Hayne. 

CHARLESTON  * 

CALM  as  that  second  summer  which  precedes 

The  first  fall  of  the  snow, 
In  the  broad  sunlight  of  heroic  deeds, 

The  city  bides  the  foe. 

As  yet,  behind  their  ramparts,  stern  and  proud,  5 

Her  bolted  thunders  sleep,  — 
Dark  Sumter,  like  a  battlemented  cloud, 

Looms  o'er  the  solemn  deep. 

No  Calpe  frowns  from  lofty  cliff  or  scaur 

To  guard  the  holy  strand  ;  10 

But  Moultrie  holds  in  leash  her  dogs  of  war 

Above  the  level  sand. 

And  down  the  dunes  a  thousand  guns  lie  couched, 

Unseen,  beside  the  flood,  — 
Like  tigers  in  some  Orient  jungle  crouched,  15 

That  wait  and  watch  for  blood. 

Meanwhile,  through  streets  still  echoing  with  trade, 

Walk  grave  and  thoughtful  men, 
Whose  hands  may  one  day  wield  the  patriot's  blade 

As  lightly  as  the  pen.  20 

And  maidens,  with  such  eyes  as  would  grow  dim 

Over  a  bleeding  hound, 
Seem  each  one  to  have  caught  the  strength  of  him 

Whose  sword  she  sadly  bound. 

1  This  and  the  following  poem   are  from  the  Memorial  Edition  of  Timrod's 
Poems,  B.  F.  Johnson  Publishing  Company,  Richmond,  Virginia. 


TIM  ROD 


237 


Thus  girt  without  and  garrisoned  at  home, 

Day  patient  following  day, 
Old  Charleston  looks  from  roof  and  spire  and  dome, 

Across  her  tranquil  bay. 

Ships,  through  a  hundred  foes,  from  Saxon  lands  i 

And  spicy  Indian  ports, 
Bring  Saxon  steel  and  iron  to  her  hands, 

And  summer  to  her  courts. 

But  still,  along  yon  dim  Atlantic  line, 

The  only  hostile  smoke  lc 

Creeps  like  a  harmless  mist  above  the  brine, 

From  some  frail  floating  oak. 

Shall  the  spring  dawn,  and  she,  still  clad  in  smiles, 

And  with  an  unscathed  brow, 
Rest  in  the  strong  arms  of  her  palm-crowned  isles,         15 

As  fair  and  free  as  now  ? 

We  know  not ;  in  the  temple  of  the  Fates 

God  has  inscribed  her  doom  : 
And,  all  untroubled  in  her  faith,  she  waits 

The  triumph  or  the  tomb.  20 

—  April,  1863. 

AT    MAGNOLIA   CEMETERY 

SLEEP  sweetly  in  your  humble  graves, 

Sleep,  martyrs  of  a  fallen  cause ; 
Though  yet  no  marble  column  craves 

The  pilgrim  here  to  pause. 

In  seeds  of  laurel  in  the  earth  25 

The  blossom  of  your  fame  is  blown, 
And  somewhere,  waiting  for  its  birth, 

The  shaft  is  in  the  stone ! 


238  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

Meanwhile,  behalf  the  tardy  years 

Which  keep  in  trust  your  storied  tombs, 

Behold  !  your  sisters  bring  their  tears, 
And  these  memorial  blooms. 

Small  tributes  !  but  your  shades  will  smile  5 

More  proudly  on  these  wreaths  to-day, 

Than  when  some  cannon-moulded  pile 
Shall  overlook  this  bay. 

Stoop,  angels,  hither  from  the  skies ! 

There  is  no  holier  spot  of  ground  10 

Than  where  defeated  valor  lies, 

By  mourning  beauty  crowned. 

—  Charleston,  1867. 

PAUL    HAMILTON    HAYNE 

1830-1886 

HAYNE  was  born  in  Charleston,  South  Carolina.  His  father  was  a 
lieutenant  in  the  United  States  Navy,  and  his  uncle  was  Robert  Y. 
Hayne,  senator  from  South  Carolina,  one  of  whose  speeches  drew  from 
Webster  the  famous  "reply.1'  Paul  Hayne  was  graduated  from 
Charleston  College,  studied  law,  but  soon  became  the  editor  of  Rus 
sell**  Magazine  at  Charleston.  During  the  war  he  served,  with  the  rank 
of  colonel,  on  the  staff  of. Governor  Pickens.  He  was  also  one  of  the 
favorite  war-time  poets  on  the  Southern  side.  After  the  war,  by  which 
he  lost  his  house  and  library,  he  removed  to  "  Copse  Hill,"  near  Au 
gusta,  Georgia,  where  he  lived  simply  and  industriously  until  his  death. 
He  issued  several  volumes  of  poems  during  his  lifetime.  Of  quiet 
temper  and  affable  ways,  he  was  greatly  beloved  by  a  large  circle  of 
literary  friends  in  all  parts  of  the  country. 

A   LITTLE   WHILE   I    FAIN    WOULD   LINGER   YET 

A  LITTLE  while  (my  life  is  almost  set !) 

I  fain  would  pause  along  the  downward  way, 

Musing  an  hour  in  this  sad  sunset  ray,  15 


HAYNE 


239 


While,  Sweet !  our  eyes  with  tender  tears  are  wet : 
A  little  hour  I  fain  would  linger  yet. 

A  little  while  I  fain  would  linger  yet, 

All  for  love's  sake,  for  love  that  cannot  tire ; 
Though  fervid  youth  be  dead,  with  youth's  desire, 

And  hope  has  faded  to  a  vague  regret, 

A  little  while  I  fain  would  linger  yet. 

• 

A  little  while  I  fain  would  linger  here : 

Behold  !  who  knows  what  strange,  mysterious  bars 
'Twixt  souls  that  love  may  rise  in  other  stars  ?  i< 

Nor  can  love  deem  the  face  of  death  is  fair : 

A  little  while  I  still  would  linger  here. 

A  little  while  I  yearn  to  hold  thee  fast, 

Hand  locked  in  hand,  and  loyal  heart  to  heart; 

(O  pitying  Christ !  those  woeful  words,  "  We  part !  ")     15 

So  ere  the  darkness  fall,  the  light  be  past, 

A  little  while  I  fain  would  hold  thee  fast. 

A  little  while,  when  light  and  twilight  meet, 

Behind,  our  broken  years  ;  before,  the  deep 

Weird  wonder  of  the  last  unfathomed  sleep,  —  20 

A  little  while  I  still  would  clasp  thee,  Sweet, 

A  little  while,  when  night  and  twilight  meet. 

A  little  while  I  fain  would  linger  here  ; 

Behold  !  who  knows  what  soul-dividing  bars 

Earth's  faithful  loves  may  part  in  other  stars  ?  25 

Nor  can  love  deem  the  face  of  death  is  fair : 

A  little  while  I  still  would  linger  here. 


240  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

THE   MOCKING   BIRD 

(AT   NIGHT) 

A  GOLDEN  pallor  of  voluptuous  light 

Filled  the  warm  southern  night : 

The  moon,  clear  orbed,  above  the  sylvan  scene 

Moved  like  a  stately  queen, 

So  rife  with  conscious  beauty  all  the  while,  5 

What  could  she  do  but  smile 

At  her  own  perfect  loveliness  below, 

Glassed  in  the  tranquil  flow 

Of  crystal  fountains  and  unruffled  streams  ? 

Half  lost  in  waking  dreams,  10 

As  down  the  loneliest  forest  dell  I  strayed, 

Lo !  from  a  neighboring  glade, 

Flashed  through  the  drifts  of  moonshine,  swiftly  came 

A  fairy  shape  of  flame. 

It  rose  in  dazzling  spirals  overhead,  15 

Whence  to  wild  sweetness  wed, 

Poured  marvelous  melodies,  silvery  trill  on  trill ;' 

The  very  leaves  grew  still 

On  the  charmed  trees  to  hearken ;  while  for  me, 

Heart-trilled  to  ecstasy,  20 

I  followed  —  followed  the  bright  shape  that  flew, 

Still  circling  up  the  blue, 

Till  as  a  fountain  that  has  reached  its  height, 

Falls  back  in  sprays  of  light 

Slowly  dissolved,  so  that  enrapturing  lay,  25 

Divinely  melts  away 

Through  tremulous  spaces  to  a  music-mist, 

Soon  by  the  fitful  breeze 

How  gently  kissed 

Into  remote  and  tender  silences.  3° 


STEDMAN  24 1 

EDMUND   CLARENCE   STEDMAN 

1833- 

FINANCIER,  poet,  and  literary  editor,  Mr.  Stedman  is  one  of  the  most 
versatile  men  of  his  generation.  He  was  born  at  Hartford,  Connecti 
cut,  and  studied  at  Yale,  where  he  won  a  first  prize  by  a  poem  on  West 
minster  Abbey.  After  trying  his  hand  at  local  journalism,  he  went  to 
New  York  and  did  work  for  the  Tribune  under  Horace  Greeley.  He 
was  war  correspondent  for  the  World  from  1861-1863.  In  '864  he  was 
connected  with  the  construction  and  financiering  of  the  first  Pacific 
railway.  Later  he  became  an  active  member  of  the  New  York  Stock 
Exchange,  holding  his  seat  for  over  twenty  years.  During  these  years 
of  business  his  pen  has  been  far  from  idle.  He  is  the  author  of  several 
volumes  of  poems,  and  has  delivered  lectures  on  poetry,  afterward  pub 
lished  in  book  form,  at  various  academic  centers.  He  has  also  edited 
(with  E.  M.  Hutchinson)  A  Library  of  American  Literature-,  The 
Works  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe  (with  G.  E.  Woodberry)  ;  A  Victorian 
Anthology,  and  An  American  Anthology. 

KEARNY  AT  SEVEN  PINES 

So  that  soldierly  legend  is  still  on  its  journey,  — 

That  story  of  Kearny  who  knew  not  to  yield  ! 
'Twas  the  day  when  with  Jameson,  fierce  Berry,  and  Birney, 

Against  twenty  thousand  he  rallied  the  field. 
Where  the  red  volleys  poured,  where  the  clamor  rose  highest,     5 

Where  the  dead  lay  in  clumps  through  the  dwarf  oak  and  pine, 
Where  the  aim  from  the  thicket  was  surest  and  nighest,  — 

No  charge  like  Phil  Kearny's  along  the  whole  line. 

When  the  battle  went  ill,  and  the  bravest  were  solemn, 

Near  the  dark  Seven  Pines,  where  we  still  held  our  ground,  10 
He  rode  down  the  length  of  the  withering  column, 

And  his  heart  at  our  war  cry  leapt  up  with  a  bound  ; 
He  snuffed,  like  his  charger,  the  wind  of  the  powder,  — 

His  sword  waved  us  on  and  we  answered  the  sign  : 
Loud  our  cheer  as  we  rushed,  but  his  laugh  rang  the  louder,    15 

"  There's  the  devil's  own  fun,  boys,  along  the  whole  line  1 " 
LONG'S  AM.  POEMS —  1 6 


242  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

How  he   strode    his   brown   steed  !      How  we   saw  his   blade 
brighten 

In  the  one  hand  still  left,  —  and  the  reins  in  his  teeth  ! 
He  laughed  like  a  boy  when  the  holidays  heighten, 

But  a  soldier's  glance  shot  from  his  visor  beneath. 
Up  came  the  reserves  to  the  mellay  infernal,  5 

Asking  where  to  go  in,  —  through  the  clearing  or  pine  ? 
"  O,  anywhere  !     Forward  !     '  Tis  all  the  same,  Colonel : 

You'll  find  lovely  fighting  along  the  whole  line  !  " 

O,  evil  the  black  shroud  of  night  at  Chantilly, 

That  hid  him  from  sight  of  his  brave  men  and  tried  !  10 

Foul,  foul  sped  the  bullet  that  clipped  the  white  lily, 

The  flower  of  our  knighthood,  the  whole  army's  pride  I 
Yet  we  dream  that  he  still,  —  in  that  shadowy  region 

Where  the  dead  form  their  ranks  at  the  wan  drummer's  sign,  — - 
Rides  on,  as  of  old,  down  the  length  of  his  legion,  15 

And  the  word  still  is  Forward  !  along  the  whole  line. 

THOMAS    BAILEY   ALDRICH 

1836- 

MR.  ALDRICH  is  regarded  as  one  of  the  most  accomplished  men  of 
letters  of  his  day.  He  was  born  at  Portsmouth,  New  Hampshire.  At 
the  age  of  seventeen  he  went  to  New  York  and  gained  the  friendship 
of  N.  P.  Willis,  and  wrote  for  various  New  York  journals.  Later  he 
went  to  Boston,  where  for  several  years  he  edited  the  Atlantic  Monthly, 
He  is  the  author  of  several  volumes  of  verse  and  of  many  well-known 
stories.  His  wit  and  brilliancy  give  him  a  place  of  distinction  among 
his  contemporaries. 

UNGUARDED  GATES 

WIDE  open  and  unguarded  stand  our  gates, 
Named  of  the  four  winds,  North,  South,  East,  and  West; 
Portals  that  lead  to  an  enchanted  land 
Of  cities,  forests,  fields  of  living  gold,  20 


ALDRICH  243 

Vast  prairies,  lordly  summits  touched  with  snow, 

Majestic  rivers  sweeping  proudly  past 

The  Arab's  date  palm  and  the  Norseman's  pine  — 

A  realm  wherein  are  fruits  of  every  zone, 

Airs  of  all  climes,  for,  lo  !  throughout  the  year  5 

The  red  rose  blossoms  somewhere  —  a  rich  land, 

A  later  Eden  planted  in  the  wilds, 

With  not  an  inch  of  earth  within  its  bound 

But  if  a  slave's  foot  press  it  sets  him  free. 

Here,  it  is  written,  Toil  shall  have  its  wage,  10 

And  Honor  honor,  and  the  humblest  man 

Stand  level  with  the  highest  in  the  law. 

Of  such  a  land  have  men  in  dungeons  dreamed, 

And  with  the  vision  brightening  in  their  eyes 

Gone  smiling  to  the  fagot  and  the  sword.  15 

Wide  open  and  unguarded  stand  our  gates, 
And  through  them  presses  a  wild,  motley  throng  — 
Men  from  the  Volga  and  the  Tartar  steppes, 
Featureless  figures  of  the  Hoang-Ho, 

Malayan,  Scythian,  Teuton,  Kelt,  and  Slav,  20 

Flying  the  Old  World's  poverty  and  scorn  ; 
These  bringing  with  them  unknown  gods  and  rites,  — 
Those,  tiger  passions,  here  to  stretch  their  claws. 
In  street  and  alley  what  strange  tongues  are  loud, 
Accents  of  menace  alien  to  our  air,  25 

Voices  that  once  the  Tower  of  Babel  knew  ! 

O  Liberty,  white  Goddess  !  is  it  well 
To  leave  the  gates  unguarded  ?     On  thy  breast 
Fold  Sorrow's  children,  soothe  the  hurts  of  fate. 
Lift  the  downtrodden,  but  with  hand  of  steel  30 

Stay  those  who  to  thy  sacred  portals  come 
To  waste  the  gifts  of  freedom.     Have  a  care 
Lest  from  thy  brow  the  clustered  stars  be  torn 


244 


MIDDLE  PERIOD 

And  trampled  in  the  dust.     For  so  of  old 
The  thronging  Goth  and  Vandal  trampled  Rome, 
And  where  the  temples  of  the  Caesars  stood 
The  lean  wolf  unmolested  made  her  lair. 

PALABRAS   CARINOSAS 

GOOD  night !     I  have  to  say  good  night  5 

To  such  a  host  of  peerless  things  ! 

Good  night  unto  the  slender  hand 

All  queenly  with  its  weight  of  rings ; 

Good  night  to  fond,  uplifted  eyes, 

Good  night  to  chestnut  braids  of  hair,  10 

Good  night  unto  the  perfect  mouth, 

And  all  the  sweetness  nestled  there  — 

The  snowy  hand  detains  me,  then 

I'll  have  to  say  good  night  again  ! 

But  there  will  come  a  time,  my  love,  15 

When,  if  I  read  our  stars  aright, 

I  shall  not  linger  by  this  porch 

With  my  farewells.     Till  then,  good  night ! 

You  wish  the  time  were  now  ?     And  I. 

You  do  not  blush  to  wish  it  so  ?  20 

You  would  have  blushed  yourself  to  death 

To  own  so  much  a  year  ago  — 

What,  both  these  snowy  hands  !  ah,  then 

I'll  have  to  say  good  night  again  1 

BATUSCHKA 

FROM  yonder  gilded  minaret  25 

Beside  the  steel-blue  Neva  set, 
I  faintly  catch,  from  time  to  time, 
The  sweet,  aerial  midnight  chime  — 
"  God  save  the  Tsar !  " 


HAY  245 

Above  the  ravelins  and  the  moats 
Of  the  white  citadel  it  floats  ; 
And  men  in  dungeons  far  beneath 
Listen,  and  pray,  and  gnash  their  teeth  — 

"  God  save  the  Tsar  !  "  5 

The  soft  reiterations  sweep 
Across  the  horror  of  their  sleep, 
As  if  some  demon  in  his  srlee 

O 

Were  mocking  at  their  misery  — 

"God  save  the  Tsar!"  I0 

In  his  Red  Palace  over  there, 
Wakeful,  he  needs  must  hear  the  prayer. 
How  can  it  drown  the  broken  cries 
Wrung  from  his  children's  agonies?  — 

"  God  save  the  Tsar  !  "  J5 

Father  they  called  him  from  of  old  — 
Batuschka  !  .   .  .  How  his  heart  is  cold! 
Wait  till  a  million  scourged  men 
Rise  in  their  awful  might,  and  then  — 
"  God  save  the  Tsar  !  " 


JOHN    HAY 

1838-1905 

JOHN  HAY,  versatile  man  of  letters  and  brilliant  statesman,  was  born 
at  Salem,  Indiana,  was  graduated  from  Brown  University,  and  later 
admitted  to  the  bar.  He  was  one  of  President  Lincoln's  private  secre 
taries  during  the  war,  and  also  saw  active  service,  with. the  rank  of 
colonel.  After  the  war  he  held  minor  diplomatic  posts  at  Paris, 
Vienna,  and  Madrid.  In  1897  President  McKinley  appointed  him 
ambassador  to  Great  Britain,  where  he  served  with  great  distinction, 
both  to  himself  and  to  his  country.  During  the  Spanish-American 


246  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

War  he  was  recalled  and  appointed  Secretary  of  State.  He  was  re 
tained  in  this  position  when  Mr.  Roosevelt  succeeded  to  the  presidency, 
and  he  held  it  until  his  death.  He  wrote  a  volume  of  Spanish  sketches, 
two  volumes  of  poems,  and,  with  J.  G.  Nicolay,  the  voluminous  and 
authoritative  life  of  Abraham  Lincoln.  His  sudden  death  was  re 
garded  as  a  national  calamity. 

JIM    BLUDSO    OF   THE    PRAIRIE   BELLE 

WALL,  no !  I  can't  tell  whar  he  lives, 

.  Becase  he  don't  live,  you  see ; 
Leastways,  he's  got  out  of  the  habit 

Of  livin'  like  you  and  me. 
Whar  have  you  been  for  the  last  three  year  5 

That  you  haven't  heard  folks  tell 
How  Jimmy  Bludso  passed  in  his  checks 

The  night  of  the  Prairie  Belle  ? 

He  weren't  no  saint,  —  them  engineers 

Is  all  pretty  much  alike,  —  10 

One  wife  in  Natchez-under-the-Hill 

And  another  one  here,  in  Pike ; 
A  keerless  man  in  his  talk  was  Jim," 

And  an  awkward  hand  in  a  row, 
But  he  never  flunked,  and  he  never  lied,  —  15 

I  reckon  he  never  knowed  how. 

And  this  was  all  the  religion  he  had,  — 

To  treat  his  engine  well ; 
Never  be  passed  on  the  river ; 

To  mind  the  pilot's  bell ;  20 

'And  if  ever  the  Prairie  Belle  took  fire,  — 

A  thousand  times  he  swore 
He'd  hold  her  nozzle  agin  the  bank 

Till  the  last  soul  got  ashore, 


HAY  247 

All  boats  has  their  day  on  the  Mississip, 

And  her  day  come  at  last,  — 
The  Movastar  was  a  better  boat, 

But  the  Belle  she  wouldn't  be  passed. 
And  so  she  come  tearin'  along  that  night —  5 

The  oldest  craft  on  the  line  — 
With  a  nigger  squat  on  her  safety  valve, 

And  her  furnace  crammed,  rosin  and  pine. 

The  fire  bust  out  as  she  clared  the  bar, 

And  burnt  a  hole  in  the  night,  10 

And  quick  as  a  flash  she  turned,  and  made 

For  that  wilier  bank  on  the  right. 
There  was  runnin'  and  cursin',  but  Jim  yelled  out, 

Over  all  the  infernal  roar, 
"  I'll  hold  her  nozzle  agin  the  bank  15 

Till  the  last  galoot's  ashore." 

Through  the  hot,  black  breath  of  the  burnin'  boat 

Jim  Bludso's  voice  was  heard, 
And  they  all  had  trust  in  his  cussedness, 

And  knowed  he  would  keep  his  word.  20 

And,  sure's  you're  born,  they  all  got  off 

Afore  the  smokestacks  fell,  — 
And  Bludso's  ghost  went  up  alone 

In  the  smoke  of  the  Prairie  Belle. 

He  weren't  no  saint,  —  but  at  jedgment  25 

I'd  run  my  chance  with  Jim, 
'Longside  of  some  pious  gentlemen 

That  wouldn't  shook  hands  with  him. 
He  seen  his  duty,  a  dead-sure  thing,  — 

And  went  for  it  thar  and  then  ;  ^  30 

And  Christ  ain't  agoing  to  be  too  hard 

On  a  man  that  died  for  men. 


248  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

JAMES    RYDER    RANDALL 

1839- 

MR.  RANDALL  has  been  a  lifelong  journalist.  He  was  born  in 
Baltimore,  Maryland,  and  studied  at  Georgetown  College,  D.C.  His 
journalistic  work  has  been  done  at  New  Orleans,  Augusta,  Baltimore, 
and  Washington. 

MY    MARYLAND 

THE  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore, 

Maryland  ! 
His  torch  is  at  thy  temple  door, 

Maryland  ! 

Avenge  the  patriotic  gore  5 

That  flecked  the  streets  of  Baltimore, 
And  be  the  battle  queen  of  yore, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

Hark  to  an  exiled  son's  appeal, 

Maryland !  10 

My  Mother  State,  to  thee  I  kneel, 

Maryland ! 

For  life  and  death,  for  woe  and  weal, 
Thy  peerless  chivalry  reveal, 
And  gird  thy  beauteous  limbs  with  steel,  15 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

Thou  wilt  not  cower  in  the  dust, 

Maryland  ! 
Thy  beaming  sword  shall  never  rust, 

Maryland !  20 

Remember  Carroll's  sacred  trust, 
Remember  Howard's  warlike  thrust, 
And  all  thy  slumberers  with  the  just, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland  1 


RANDALL  249 

Come !  'tis  the  red  dawn  of  the  day, 

Maryland ! 
Come  with  thy  panoplied  array, 

Maryland ! 

With  Ringgold's  spirit  for  the  fray,  5 

With  Watson's  blood  at  Monterey, 
With  fearless  Lowe  and  dashing  May, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

Dear  Mother,  burst  the  tyrant's  chain, 

Maryland  !  10 

Virginia  should  not  call  in  vain, 

Maryland  1 

She  meets  her  sisters  on  the  plain, — 
"  Sic  semper  !  "  'tis  the  proud  refrain 
That  baffles  minions  back  amain,  15 

Maryland  ! 
Arise  in  majesty  again, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

Come !  for  thy  shield  is  bright  and  strong, 

Maryland !  20 

Come  !  for  thy  dalliance  does  thee  wrong, 
Maryland  ! 

Come  to  thine  own  heroic  throng, 

Stalking  with  Liberty  along, 

And  chant  thy  dauntless  slogan-song,  25 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

I  see  the  blush  upon  thy  cheek, 

Maryland ! 
For  thou  wast  ever  bravely  meek, 

Maryland !  30 

But  lo!  there  surges  forth  a  shriek, 


250  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

From  hill  to  hill,  from  creek  to  creek, 
Potomac  calls  to  Chesapeake, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 


Thou  wilt  not  yield  the  Vandal  toll, 

Maryland !  5 

Thou  wilt  not  crook  to  his  control, 

Maryland ! 

Better  the  fire  upon  thee  roll, 
Better  the  shot,  the  blade,  the  bowl, 
Than  crucifixion  of  the  soul,  10 

Maryland,  my  Maryland  1 

I  hear  the  distant  thunder  hum, 

Maryland  ! 
The  Old  Line's  bugle,  fife,  and  drum, 

Maryland !  15 

She  is  not  dead,  nor  deaf,  nor  dumb ; 
Huzza  !  she  spurns  the  Northern  scum  ! 
She  breathes  !     She  burns  !     She'll  come  !     She'll  come  1 

Maryland,  my  Maryland  1 


ABRAM    JOSEPH    RYAN 

1839-1886 

FATHER  RYAN,  as  he  is  familiarly  called,  was  born  in  Norfolk,  Vir 
ginia,  and  died  in  Louisville,  Kentucky.  He  was  a  Catholic  priest, 
and  served  as  a  chaplain  in  the  Confederate  army.  Of  an  unusually 
restless  disposition,  he  edited  in  turn  several  religious  periodicals  and 
moved  from  one  pastoral  charge  to  another.  Much  of  his  verse,  written 
during  the  heat  of  war,  is  no  longer  remembered ;  but  one  or  two  of  his 
lyrics  retain  their  popularity. 


RYAN  251 

THE   CONQUERED   BANNER1 

FURL  that  Banner,  for  'tis  weary ; 
Round  its  staff  'tis  drooping  dreary : 

Furl  it,  fold  it,  —  it  is  best ; 
For  there's  not  a  man  to  wave  it, 
And  there's  not  a  sword  to  save  it, 
And  there's  npt  one  left  to  lave  it 
In  the  blood  which  heroes  gave  it, 
And  its  foes  now  scorn  and  brave  it : 

Furl  it,  hide  it,  —  let  it  rest ! 

Take  that  Banner  down  !  'tis  tattered  ;  10 

Broken  is  its  staff  and  shattered ; 
And  the  valiant  hosts  are  scattered, 

Over  whom  it  floated  high. 
Oh,  'tis  hard  for  us  to  fold  it, 
Hard  to  think  there's  none  to  hold  it,  15 

Hard  that  those  who  once  unrolled  it 

Now  must  furl  it  with  a  sigh  ! 

Furl  that  Banner  —  furl  it  sadly! 

Once  ten  thousands  hailed  it  gladly, 

And  ten  thousands  wildly,  madly,  2c 

Swore  it  should  forever  wave  ; 
Swore  that  foeman's  sword  should  never 
Hearts  like  theirs  entwined  dissever, 
Till  that  flag  should  float  forever 

O'er  their  freedom  or  their  grave  1  25 

Furl  it !  for  the  hands  that  grasped  it, 

And  the  hearts  that  fondly  clasped  it, 

Cold  and  dead  are  lying  low ; 

1  Selected  from  Father  Ryan's  Poems.     Copyright,  P.  J.  Kenedy  &  Sons,  N.  Y. 


252  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

And  that  Banner  —  it  is  trailing, 
While  around  it  sounds  the  wailing 
Of  its  people  in  their  woe. 

For,  though  conquered,  they  adore  it,  — 

Love  the  cold,  dead  hands  that  bore  it,  5 

Weep  for  those  who  fell  before  it, 
Pardon  those  who  trailed  and  tore  it ; 
And  oh,  wildly  they  deplore  it, 

Now  to  furl  and  fold  it  so  ! 

Furl  that  Banner  !     True,  'tis  gory,  10 

Yet  'tis  wreathed  around  with  glory, 
And  'twill  live  in  song  and  story 

Though  its  folds  are  in  the  dust ! 
For  its  fame  on  brightest  pages, 
Penned  by  poets  and  by  sages,  15 

Shall  go  sounding  down  the  ages  — 

Furl  its  folds  though  now  we  must. 

Furl  that  Banner,  softly,  slowly ! 
Treat  it  gently  —  it  is  holy, 

For  it  droops  above  the  dead.  20 

Touch  it  not  —  unfold  it  never  ; 
Let  it  droop  there,  furled  forever,  — 

For  its  people's  hopes  are  fled  ! 

ANONYMOUS 

These  verses  first  appeared  in  the  Metropolitan  Record. 

THE   CONFEDERATE    FLAG 

No  more  o'er  human  hearts  to  wave, 

Its  tattered  folds  forever  furled  :  25 

We  laid  it  in  an  honored  grave, 
And  left  its  memories  to  the  world. 


ANONYMOUS  253 

The  agony  of  long,  long  years, 

May,  in  a  moment,  be  compressed, 
And  with  a  grief  too  deep  for  tears, 

A  heart  may  be  oppressed. 

Oh  !  there  are  those  who  die  too  late  5 

For  faith  in  God,  and  Right,  and  Truth,  — 

The  cold  mechanic  grasp  of  Fate 

Hath  crushed  the  roses  of  their  youth. 

More  blessed  are  the  dead  who  fell 

Beneath  it  in  unfaltering  trust,  10 

Than  we,  who  loved  it  passing  well, 

Yet  lived  to  see  it  trail  in  dust. 

It  hath  no  future  which  endears, 

And  this  farewell  shall  be  our  last : 
Embalm  it  in  a  nation's  tears,  I5 

And  consecrate  it  to  the  past ! 

To  mouldering  hands  that  to  it  clung, 

And  flaunted  it  in  hostile  faces, 
To  pulseless  arms  that  round  it  flung, 

The  terror  of  their  last  embraces  —  20 

To  our  dead  heroes  —  to  the  hearts 

That  thrill  no  more  to  love  or  glory, 
To  those  who  acted  well  their  parts, 

Who  died  in  youth  and  live  in  glory  — 

With  tears  forever  be  it  told,  2$ 

Until  oblivion  covers  all : 
Until  the  heavens  themselves  wear  old, 

And  totter  slowly  to  their  fall. 


254  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

BRET    HARTE 

1839-1902 

THE  lives  of  few  American  writers  have  been  so  varied  or  so  pictur 
esque  as  that  of  Bret  Harte.  He  was  born  at  Albany,  New  York,  but 
early  in  life,  having  lost  his  father,  he  went  to  California,  where  he 
successively  taught  school,  worked  in  a  mine  and  in  a  printing  office, 
and  edited  a  newspaper.  His  fame  as  a  writer  spread  to  the  East  when 
he  published  his  story,  The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp,  in  the  Overland 
Monthly,  the  first  successful  literary  magazine  published  on  the  Pacific 
slope.  He  removed  to  New  York  in  1871,  where  he  published  many 
stories  and  poems  in  the  periodicals  of  the  day.  He  also  held  consul 
ships  at  Crefeld,  Germany,  and  at  Glasgow,  Scotland.  The  last  years 
of  his  life  were  spent  in  England,  where  he  died  and  was  buried.  His 
stories  and  poems  deal  chiefly  with  life  in  California.  They  are  as 
popular  in  England  as  in  America. 

JOHN    BURNS    OF   GETTYSBURG 

HAVE  you  heard  the  story  that  gossips  tell 

Of  Burns  of  Gettysburg  ?  —  No  ?  Ah,  well : 

Brief  is  the  glory  that  hero  earns, 

Briefer  the  story  of  poor  John  Burns. 

He  was  the  fellow  who  won  renown,  —  5 

The  only  man  who  didn't  back  down 

When  the  rebels  rode  through  his  native  town  ; 

But  held  his  own  in  the  fight  next  day, 

When  all  his  townsfolk  ran  away. 

That  was  in  July  sixty-three,  I0 

The  very  day  that  General  Lee, 

Flower  of  Southern  chivalry, 

Baffled  and  beaten,  backward  reeled 

From  a  stubborn  Meade  and  a  barren  field. 

I  might  tell  how  but  the  day  before  '5 

John  Burns  stood  at  his  cottage  door, 


HARTE  255 

Looking  down  the  village  street, 

Where,  in  the  shade  of  his  peaceful  vine, 

He  heard  the  low  of  his  gathered  kine, 

And  felt  their  breath  with  incense  sweet ; 

Or  I  might  say,  when  the  sunset  burned  5 

The  old  farm  gable,  he  thought  it  turned 

The  milk  that  fell  like  a  babbling  flood 

Into  the  milk  pail  red  as  blood ! 

Or  how  he  fancied  the  hum  of  bees 

Were  bullets  buzzing  among  the  trees.  10 

But  all  such  fanciful  thoughts  as  these 

Were  strange  to  a  practical  man  like  Burns, 

Who  minded  only  his  own  concerns, 

Troubled  no  more  by  fancies  fine 

Than  one  of  his  calm-eyed,  long-tailed  kine, —  15 

Quite  old-fashioned  and  matter-of-fact, 

Slow  to  argue,  but  quick  to  act. 

That  was  the  reason,  as  some  folk  say, 

He  fought  so  well  on  that  terrible  day. 

And  it  was  terrible.     On  the  right  20 

Raged  for  hours  the  heady  fight, 

Thundered  the  battery's  double  bass,  — 

Difficult  music  for  men  to  face  ; 

While  on  the  left  —  where  now  the  graves 

Undulate  like  the  living  waves  25 

That  all  that  day  unceasing  swept 

Up  to  the  pits  the  rebels  kept  — 

Round  shot  plowed  the  upland  glades, 

Sown  with  bullets,  reaped  with  blades ; 

Shattered  fences  here  and  there  30 

Tossed  their  splinters  in  the  air ; 

The  very  trees  were  stripped  and  bare  ; 

The  barns  that  once  held  yellow  grain 

Were  heaped  with  harvests  of  the  slain ; 


256  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

The  cattle  bellowed  on  the  plain, 
The  turkeys  screamed  with  might  and  main, 
And  brooding  barnfowl  left  their  rest 
With  strange  shells  bursting  in  each  nest. 

Just  where  the  tide  of  the  battle  turns,  5 

Erect  and'  lonely  stood  old  John  Burns. 

How  do  you  think  the  man  was  dressed  ? 

He  wore  an  ancient  long  buff  vest, 

Yellow  as  saffron,  —  but  his  best ; 

And  buttoned  over  his  manly  breast  10 

Was  a  bright  blue  coat,  with  a  rolling  collar, 

And  large  gilt  buttons,  —  size  of  a  dollar,— 

With  tails  that  the  country-folk  called  "  swaller." 

He  wore  a  broad-brimmed,  bell-crowned  hat, 

White  as  the  locks  on  which  it  sat.  15 

Never  had  such  a  sight  been  seen 

For  forty  years  on  the  village  green, 

Since  old  John  Burns  was  a  country  beau, 

And  went  to  the  "  quiltings  "  long  ago. 

Close  at  his  elbows  all  that  day,  20 

Veterans  of  the  Peninsula, 

Sunburnt  and  bearded,  charged  away ; 

And  striplings,  downy  of  lip  and  chin,  — 

Clerks  that  the  Home  Guard  mustered  in,  — • 

Glanced,  as  they  passed,  at  the  hat  he  wore,  25 

Then  at  the  rifle  his  right  hand  bore, 

And  hailed  him,  from  out  their  youthful  lore, 

With  scraps  of  a  slangy  repertoire  : 

"  How  are  you,  White  Hat  ?  "     "  Put  her  through  1  " 

"  Your  head's  level !  "  and  "  Bully  for  you  !  "  3° 

Called  him  "  Daddy,"  begged  he'd  disclose 

The  name  of  the  tailor  who  made  his  clothes, 

And  what  was  the  value  he  set  on  those ; 


HARTE  257 

While  Burns,  unmindful  of  jeer  and  scoff, 
Stood  there  picking  the  rebels  off,  — 
With  his  long  brown  rifle  and  bell-crown  hat 
And  the  swallowtails  they  were  laughing  at. 

'Twas  but  for  a  moment,  for  that  respect  5 

Which  clothes  all  courage  their  voices  checked ; 

And  something  the  wildest  could  understand 

Spake  in  the  old  man's  strong  right  hand, 

And  his  corded  throat,  and  the  lurking  frown 

Of  his  eyebrows  under  his  old  bell-crown  ;  I0 

Until,  as  they  gazed,  there  crept  an  awe 

Through  the  ranks  in  whispers,  and  some  men  saw, 

In  the  antique  vestments  and  long  white  hair, 

The  Past  of  the  Nation  in  battle  there ; 

And  some  of  the  soldiers  since  declare  I5 

That  the  gleam  of  his  old  white  hat  afar, 

Like  the  crested  plume  of  the  brave  Navarre, 

That  day  was  their  oriflamme  of  war. 

So  raged  the  battle.     You  know  the  rest : 

How  the  rebels,  beaten  and  backward  pressed,  20 

Broke  at  the  final  charge  and  ran, 

At  which  John  Burns  —  a  practical  man  — 

Shouldered  his  rifle,  unbent  his  brows, 

And  then  went  back  to  his  bees  and  cows. 

That  is  the  story  of  old  John  Burns  ;  2$ 

This  is  the  moral  the  reader  learns : 

In  fighting  the  battle,  the  question's  whether 

You'll  show  a  hat  that's  white,  or  a  feather ! 


LONG'S  AM.  POEMS  —  17 


258  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

CHIQUITA 

BEAUTIFUL  !     Sir,  you  may  say  so.     Thar  isn't  her  match  in  the 

county ; 

Is  thar,  old  gal,  —  Chiquita,  my  darling,  my  beauty? 
Feel  of  that  neck,  sir,  — thar's  velvet!     Whoa!    steady,  — ah, 

will  you,  you  vixen  ! 
Whoa !  I  say,  Jack,  trot  her  out ;  let  the  gentleman  look  at  her 

paces. 

Morgan!  — she  ain't  nothing  else,  and  I've  got  the  papers  to 

prove  it.  5 

Sired  by  Chippewa  Chief,  and  twelve  hundred  dollars  won't  buy 

her. 
Briggs    of  Tuolumne    owned    her.     Did   you   know    Briggs    of 

Tuolumne  ? 
Busted  hisself  in  White  Pine,  and  blew  out  his  brains  down  in 

'Frisco  1 

Hedn't  no  savey,  hed  Briggs.    Thar,  Jack  !  that'll  do,  —quit  that 

foolin' ! 
Nothin'  to  what  she  kin  do,  when  she's  got  her  work  cut  out 

before  her.  ]° 

Hosses    is   hosses,    you   know,    and    likewise,    too,   jockeys    is 

jockeys : 
And  'tain't  ev'ry  man  as  can  ride  as  knows  what  a  hoss  has  got 

in  him. 

Know   the   old   ford   on  the  Fork,  that  nearly  got   Flanigan's 

leaders  ? 
Nasty   in    daylight,  you  bet,  and  a  mighty  rough  ford  in    low 

water ! 

Well,  it  ain't  six  weeks  ago  that  me  and  the  Jedge  and  his  nevey 
Struck  for  that  ford  in  the  night,  in  the  rain,  and  the  water  all 

round  us ;  l6 


HARTE  259 

Up  to  our  flanks  in  the  gulch,  and  Rattlesnake  Creek  jest  a-bilin' 

Not  a  plank  left  in  the  dam,  and  nary  a  bridge  on  the  river. 

I   had  the  gray,  and  the  Jedge  had  his  roan,  and  his   nevey, 

Chiquita  ; 
And  after  us  trundled  the  rocks  jest  loosed  from  the  top  of  the 

canon. 

Lickity,  lickity,  switch,  we  came  to  the  ford,  and  Chiquita  5 

Buckled  right  down  to  her  work,  and,  afore  I  could  yell  to  her 

rider, 
Took  water  jest  at  the  ford,  and  there  was  the  Jedge  and  me 

standing, 
And  twelve  hundred  dollars  of  hoss-flesh  afloat,  and  a-driftin'  to 

thunder ! 

Would   ye   b'lieve    it?     That    night,    that   hoss,   that    'ar   filly, 

Chiquita, 
Walked   herself    into  her  stall,  and  stood  there,  all  quiet  and 

dripping :  10 

Clean  as  a  beaver  or  rat,  with  nary  a  buckle  of  harness, 
Jest  as  she  swain  the  Fork,  —  that  hoss,  that  ar'  filly,  Chiquita. 

That's  what  I  call  a  hoss  !  and  — What  did  you  say  ?  —  Oh,  the 

nevey  ? 

Drownded,  I  reckon,  —  leastways,  he  never  kern  back  to  deny  it. 
Ye  see  the  derned  fool  had  no  seat,  ye  couldn't  have  made  him 

a  rider ;  15 

And  then,  ye  know,  boys  will  be  boys,  and  hosses  —  well,  hosses 

is  hosses ! 

THE   AGED    STRANGER 

AN    INCIDENT  OF  THE  WAR 

"  I  WAS  with  Grant  "  —the  stranger  said ; 

Said  the  farmer,  "  Say  no  more, 
But  rest  thee  here  at  my  cottage  porch, 

For  thy  feet  are  weary  and  sore."  20 


26O  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

11 1  was  with  Grant  "  —the  stranger  said ; 

Said  the  farmer,  "  Nay,  no  more,  — 
I  prithee  sit  at  my  frugal  board, 

And  eat  of  my  humble  store. 

"  How  fares  my  boy,  —  my  soldier  boy,  5 

Of  the  old  Ninth  Army  Corps  ? 
I  warrant  he  bore  him  gallantly 

In  the  smoke  and  the  battle's  roar !  " 

"  I  know  him  not,"  said  the  aged  man, 

"  And,  as  I  remarked  before,  10 

I  was  with  Grant  "  —  "  Nay,  nay,  I  know," 
Said  the  farmer,  "  say  no  more  : 

"  He  fell  in  battle,  —  I  see,  alas  ! 

Thou'dst  smooth  these  tidings  o'er, — 
Nay,  speak  the  truth,  whatever  it  be,  15 

Though  it  rend  my  bosom's  core. 

"  How  fell  he,  —  with  his  face  to  the  foe, 

Upholding  the  flag  he  bore  ? 
Oh,  say  not  that  my  boy  disgraced 

The  uniform  that  he  wore  !  "  20 

"  I  cannot  tell,"  said  the  aged  man, 
"  And  should  have  remarked  before, 

That  I  was  with  Grant,  —  in  Illinois,  — 
Some  three  years  before  the  war." 

Then  the  farmer  spake  him  never  a  word,  25 

But  beat  with  his  fist  full  sore 
That  aged  man,  who  had  worked  for  Grant 

Some  three  years  before  the  war. 


SILL  26l 

EDWARD    ROWLAND   SILL 

1841-1887 

A  GRADUATE  of  Yale,  a  professor  of  English  literature  at  the  Univer 
sity  of  California,  a  man  of  unusual  poetic  gifts,  Sill  died  when  he 
seemed  on  the  threshold  of  a  more  than  ordinary  literary  career.  He 
left  behind  a  volume  of  essays  and  several  volumes  of  verse.  The  Venus 
of  Milo  is  his  longest  and  best-known  poem.  He  was  born  at  Windsor, 
Connecticut,  and  died  at  Cleveland,  Ohio. 

THE   FOOL'S    PRAYER 

THE  royal  feast  was  done  ;  the  King 
Sought  some  new  sport  to  banish  care, 

And  to  his  jester  cried  :  "  Sir  Fool, 

Kneel  now,  and  make  for  us  a  prayer !  " 

The  jester  doffed  his  cap  and  bells,  5 

And  stood  the  mocking  court  before  ; 

They  could  not  see  the  bitter  smile 
Behind  the  painted  grin  he  wore. 

He  bowed  his  head,  and  bent  his  knee 

Upon  the  monarch's  silken  stool ;  10 

His  pleading  voice  arose  :  "  O  Lord, 
Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool ! 

11  No  pity,  Lord,  could  change  the  heart 
From  red  with  wrong  to  white  as  wool : 

The  rod  must  heal  the  sin  ;  but,  Lord,  15 

Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool ! 

"  'Tis  not  by  guilt  the  onward  sweep 
Of  truth  and  right,  O  Lord,  we  stay ; 

Tis  by  our  follies  that  so  long 

We  hold  the  earth  from  heaven  away.  20 


262  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

"  These  clumsy  feet,  still  in  the  mire, 

Go  crushing  blossoms  without  end  ; 
These  hard,  well-meaning  hands  we  thrust 

Among  the  heartstrings  of  a  friend. 

"  The  ill-timed  truth  we  might  have  kept —  5 

Who  knows  how  sharp  it  pierced  and  stung ! 

The  word  we  had  not  sense  to  say  — 
Who  knows  how  grandly  it  had  rung ! 

"  Our  faults  no  tenderness  should  ask, 

The  chastening  stripes  must  cleanse  them  all ;         10 
But  for  our  blunders  —  Oh,  in  shame 

Before  the  eyes  of  heaven  we  fall. 

"  Earth  bears  *no  balsam  for  mistakes  ; 

Men  crown  the  knave,  and  scourge  the  tool 
That  did  his  will  ;  but  Thou,  O  Lord,  15 

Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool !  " 

The  room  was  hushed  ;  in  silence  rose 
The  King,  and  sought  his  gardens  cool, 

And  walked  apart,  and  murmured  low, 

"  Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool !  "  20 

THE   FUTURE 

WHAT  may  we  take  into  the  vast  Forever  ? 
That  marble  door 

Admits  no  fruit  of  all  our  long  endeavor, 
No  fame-wreathed  crown  we  wore, 
No  garnered  lore.  25 

What  can  we  bear  beyond  the  unknown  portal  ? 

No  gold,  no  gains 
Of  all  our  toiling :  in  the  life  immortal 

No  hoarded  wealth  remains, 

Nor  gilds,  nor  stains.  3° 


SILL  263 

Naked  from  out  that  far  abyss  behind  us 

We  entered  here : 
No  word  came  with  our  coming  to  remind  us 

What  wondrous  world  was  near, 

No  hope,  no  fear.  5 

Into  the  silent,  starless  Night  before  us, 

Naked  we  glide ; 
No  hand  has  mapped  the  constellations  o'er  us, 

No  comrade  at  our  side, 

No  chart,  no  guide.  10 

Yet  fearless  toward  that  midnight,  black  and  hollow, 

Our  footsteps  fare : 
The  beckoning  of  a  Father's  hand  we  follow  — 

His  love  alone  is  there, 

No  curse,  no  care.  15 

EVE'S    DAUGHTER 

I  WAITED  in  the  little  sunny  room : 

The  cool  breeze  waved  the  window-lace  at  play, 
The  white  rose  on  the  porch  was  all  in  bloom, 

And  out  upon  the  bay 
I  watched  the  wheeling  sea  birds  go  and  come.  20 

"  Such  an  old  friend,  —  she  would  not  make  me  stay 

While  she  bound  up  her  hair."     I  turned,  and  lo, 
Danae  in  her  shower !  and  fit  to  slay 

All  a  man's  hoarded  prudence  at  a  blow : 
Gold  hair,  that  streamed  away  25 

As  round  some  nymph  a  sunlit  fountain's  flow. 

"  She  would  not  make  me  wait "  —  but  well  I  know 
She  took  a  good  half  hour  to  loose  and  lay 

Those  locks  in  dazzling  disarrangement  so  ! 


264  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

WILLIAM    GORDON    McCABE 

1841- 

CAPTAIN  McCABE,  head  master  of  the  University  School  at  Rich 
mond,  Virginia,  was  born  near  Richmond,  and  was  graduated  from  the 
University  of  Virginia.  He  was  a  captain  of  artillery  in  the  Confederate 
army.  During  the  war  he  wrote  several  popular  lyrics.  He  is  also  the 
author  of  The  Defence  of  Petersburg,  Campaign  of  1864-1865.  His 
sprightly  wit.  scholarship,  and  good  comradeship  make  him  welcome 
in  all  social  and  literary  circles. 

CHRISTMAS    NIGHT   OF  '62 

THE  wintry  blast  goes  wailing  by, 

The  snow  is  falling  overhead  ; 

I  hear  the  lonely  sentry's  tread, 
And  distant  watch  fires  light  the  sky. 

Dim  forms  go  flitting  through  the  gloom ;  5 

The  soldiers  cluster  round  the  blaze 

To  talk  of  other  Christmas  days, 
And  softly  speak  of  home  and  home. 

My  saber  swinging  overhead 

Gleams  in  the  watch  fire's  fitful  glow,  10 

While  fiercely  drives  the  blinding  snow, 

And  memory  leads  me  to  the  dead. 

My  thoughts  go  wandering  to  and  fro, 
Vibrating  'twixt  the  Now  and  Then  ; 
I  see  the  low-browed  home  again,  15 

The  old  hall  wreathed  with  mistletoe. 

And  sweetly  from  the  far-off  years 

Comes  borne  the  laughter  faint  and  low, 
The  voices  of  the  Long  Ago  ! 

My  eyes  are  wet  with  tender  tears.  20 


MILLER  265 

I  feel  again  the  mother-kiss, 

I  see  again  the  glad  surprise 

That  lightened  up  the  tranquil  eyes, 
And  brimmed  them  o'er  with  tears  of  bliss, 

As,  rushing  from  the  old  hall  door,  5 

She  fondly  clasped  her  wayward  boy  — 
Her  face  all  radiant  with  the  joy 

She  felt  to  see  him  home  once  more. 

My  saber  swinging  on  the  bough 

Gleams  in  the  watch  fire's  fitful  glow,  10 

While  fiercely  drives  the  blinding  snow, 

Aslant  upon  my  saddened  brow. 

Those  cherished  faces  all  are  gone  ! 

Asleep  within  the  quiet  graves 

Where  lies  the  snow  in  drifting  waves,  —  15 

And  I  am  sitting  here  alone. 

There's  not  a  comrade  here  to-night 
But  knows  that  loved  ones  far  away 
On  bended  knees  this  night  will  pray : 

"  God  bring  our  darling  from  the  fight."  20 

But  there  are  none  to  wish  me  back, 

For  me  no  yearning  prayers  arise. 

The  lips  are  mute  and  closed  the  eyes  — 
My  home  is  in  the  bivouac. 

In  the  Army  of  Northern    Virginia. 

JOAQUIN   MILLER 

1841- 

CICINNATUS  HINER  MILLER,  better  known  by  his  pen  name,  Joaquin 
Miller,  was  born  in  Indiana,  but  most  of  his  life  has  been  spent  on  the 
Pacific  slope.  He  has  been  a  miner,  a  lawyer,  a  judge,  and  an  editor. 


266  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

He  has  traveled  in  Europe,  and  in  very  recent  years  he  made  a  visit 
to  the  Klondike.  Several  volumes  of  verse  and  two  or  three  novels 
have  come  from  his  pen.  He  lives  in  a  picturesque  house  on  the 
heights  overlooking  San  Francisco  Bay. 

COLUMBUS 

BEHIND  him  lay  the  gray  Azores, 

Behind  the  Gates  of  Hercules ; 
Before  him  not  the  ghost  of  shores, 

Before  him  only  shoreless  seas. 
The  good  mate  said :  "  Now  must  we  pray,  5 

For  lo  !  the  very  stars  are  gone. 
Brave  Adm'r'l,  speak,  what  shall  I  say  ?  " 

"  Why,  say  :  '  Sail  on  !  sail  on  !  and  on  1 


5   J> 


"  My  men  grow  mutinous  day  by  day ; 

My  men  grow  ghastly  wan  and  weak."  i0 

The  stout  mate  thought  of  home  ;  a  spray 

Of  salt  wave  washed  his  swarthy  cheek. 
"  What  shall  I  say,  brave  Adm'r'l,  say, 

If  we  sight  naught  but  seas  at  dawn  ?  " 
"  Why,  you  shall  say  at  break  of  day  :  15 

'  Sail  on  !  sail  on  1  sail  on  !  and  on  ! '  " 

They  sailed  and  sailed,  as  winds  might  blow, 

Until  at  last  the  blanched  mate  said : 
"  Why,  now  not  even  God  would  know 

Should  I  and  all  my  men  fall  dead.  20 

These  very  winds  forget  their  way, 

For  God  from  these  dread  seas  is  gone. 
Now  speak,  brave  Adm'r'l,  speak  and  say  "  — 

He  said  :  "  Sail  on  !  sail  on  !  and  on!  " 

They  sailed.     They  sailed.     Then  spake  the  mate  :   25 
"  This  mad  sea  shows  his  teeth  to-night. 


MILLER  267 

He  curls  his  lip,  he  lies  in  wait, 

With  lifted  teeth,  as  if  to  bite  ! 
Brave  Adm'r'l,  say  but  one  good  word  : 

What  shall  we  do  when  hope  is  gone  ?  " 
The  words  leapt  like  a  leaping  sword  :  5 

"  Sail  on  !  sail  on  !  sail  on  !  and  on  !  " 

Then,  pale  and  worn,  he  kept  his  deck, 

And  peered  through  darkness.     Ah,  that  night 
Of  all  dark  nights  !     And  then  a  speck  — 

A  light !     A  light !     A  light !     A  light !  10 

It  grew,  a  starlit  flag  unfurled  ! 

It  grew  to  be  Time's  burst  of  dawn. 
He  gained  a  world  ;  he  gave  that  world 

Its  grandest  lesson  :  "  On  !  sail  on  1  " 

WESTWARD    HO! 

WHAT  strength  !  what  strife  !  what  rude  unrest !          15 

What  shocks  !  what  half-shaped  armies  met  1 

A  mighty  nation  moving  west, 

With  all  its  steely  sinews  set 

Against  the  living  forests.     Hear 

The  shouts,  the  shots  of  pioneer,  20 

The  rended  forests,  rolling  wheels, 

As  if  some  half-check'd  army  reels, 

Recoils,  redoubles,  comes  again, 

Loud  sounding  like  a  hurricane. 

O  bearded,  stalwart,  westmost  men,  25 

So  tower-like,  so  Gothic  built ! 

A  kingdom  won  without  the  guilt 

Of  studied  battle,  that  hath  been 

Your  blood's  inheritance.  .  .  .     Your  heirs 

Know  not  your  tombs  :  the  great  plowshares  30 


268  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

Cleave  softly  through  the  mellow  loam 

Where  you  have  made  eternal  home, 

And  set  no  sign.     Your  epitaphs 

Are  writ  in  furrows.     Beauty  laughs 

While  through  the  green  ways  wandering  5 

Beside  her  love,  slow  gathering 

White,  starry-hearted  May-time  blooms 

Above  your  lowly  leveled  tombs  ; 

And  then  below  the  spotted  sky 

She  stops,  she  leans,  she  wonders  why  10 

The  ground  is  heaved  and  broken  so, 

And  why  the  grasses  darker  grow 

And  droop  and  trail  like  wounded  wing. 

Yea,  Time,  the  grand  old  harvester, 

Has  gather'd  you  from  wood  and  plain.  15 

We  call  to  you  again,  again  ; 

The  rush  and  rumble  of  the  car 

Comes  back  in  answer.     Deep  and  wide 

The  wheels  of  progress  have  passed  on  ; 

The  silent  pioneer  is  gone.  20 

His  ghost  is  moving  down  the  trees, 

And  now  we  push  the  memories 

Of  bluff,  bold  men  who  dared  and  died 

In  foremost  battle,  quite  aside. 

SIDNEY    LANIER 

1842-1881 

MOST  critics  regard  Lanier  as  the  chief  of  the  poets  who  have  come 
from  the  South  since  the  death  of  Poe.  He  was  born  at  Macon, 
Georgia,  and  was  graduated  from  Oglethorpe  College.  He  was  among 
the  first  to  enlist  in  the  Confederate  army,  and  near  the  close  of  the  war 
he  served  on  a  blockade  runner.  For  a  time  after  the  war  he  taught 
school,  and  later  practiced  law ;  but  his  absorbing  interest  was  in  music 


LANIER  269 

and  poetry.  He  removed  to  Baltimore,  where  most  of  his  later  years 
were  spent,  and  supported  himself  for  a  time  by  playing  the  flute  in 
the  Peabody  symphony  concerts.  His  poems  appeared  from  time  to 
time  in  the  magazines,  and  he  was  appointed  to  a  lectureship  in  Johns 
Hopkins  University.  These  lectures  appeared  later  in  book  form,  The 
Science  of  English  Verse  and  The  English  Novel.  His  literary  activity 
was  cut  short  by  ill  health,  which  drove  him  to  western  North  Caro 
lina,  where  he  died.  Lanier's  best-known  longer  poems  are  Corn  and 
The  Marshes  of  Glynn.  They  show  imaginative  gifts  of  a  high  order, 
but  it  is  doubtful  if  they  will  ever  make  a  wide  popular  appeal.  Lanier's 
engaging  personality  and  high  literary  ideals  drew  to  him  many  fine 
spirits,  who  still  mourn  his  early  death. 

SONG   OF   THE   CHATTAHOOCHE1 

OUT  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Down  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
I  hurry  amain  to  reach  the  plain, 
Run  the  rapid  and  leap  the  fall, 
Split  at  the  rock  and  together  again,  5 

Accept  my  bed,  or  narrow  or  wide, 
And  flee  from  folly  on  every  side 
With  a  lover's  pain  to  attain  the  plain 

Far  from  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Far  from  the  valleys  of  Hall.  10 

All  down  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

All  through  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  rushes  cried,  Abide,  abide, 
The  willful  water  weeds  held  me  thrall, 
The  laving  laurel  turned  my  tide,  15 

The  ferns  and  the  fondling  grass  said,  Stay, 
The  dewberry  dipped  for  to  work  delay, 
And  the  little  reeds  sighed,  Abide,  abide, 

1  From  Poems  of  Sidney  Lanier.     Copyright,  1884,  1891,   by  Mary  D.  Lanier. 
Published  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


2/0 


MIDDLE   PERIOD 

Here  in  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
Here  in  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

High  o'er  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Veiling  the  valleys  of  Hall, 

The  hickory  told  me  manifold  5 

Fair  tales  of  shade,  the  poplar  tall 
Wrought  me  her  shadowy  self  to  hold, 
The  chestnut,  the  oak,  the  walnut,  the  pine, 
Overleaning,  \vith  flickering  meaning  and  sign, 
Said,  Pass  not,  so  cold,  these  manifold  10 

Deep  shades  of  the  hills  of  Habcrsliam, 

These  glades  in  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

And  oft  in  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

And  oft  in  the  valleys  of  Hall, 

The  white  quartz  shone,  and  the  smooth  brook-stone   15 
Did  bar  me  of  passage  with  friendly  brawl, 
And  many  a  luminous  jewel  lone 
—  Crystals  clear  or  a-cloud  with  mist, 
Ruby,  garnet,  and  amethyst  — 
Made  lures  with  the  lights  of  streaming  stone  20 

In  the  clefts  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

In  the  beds  of  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

But  oh,  not  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

And  oh,  not  the  valleys  of  Hall 

Avail  :  I  am  fain  for  to  water  the  plain.  25 

Downward  the  voices  of  Duty  call  — 
Downward,  to  toil  and  be  mixed  with  the  main, 
The  dry  fields  burn,  and  the  mills  are  to  turn, 
And  a  myriad  flowers  mortally  yearn, 
And  the  lordly  main  from  beyond  the  plain  30 

Calls  o'er  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Calls  through  the  valleys  of  Hall. 


LANIER  271 

TAMPA    ROBINS1 

THE  robin  laughed  in  the  orange  tree: 
"  Ho,  windy  North,  a  fig  for  thee  : 
While  breasts  are  red  and  wings  are  bold 
And  green  trees  wave  us  globes  of  gold, 

Time's  scythe  shall  reap  but  bliss  for  me  5 

—  Sunlight,  song,  and  the  orange  tree. 

Burn,  golden  globes  in  leafy  sky, 

My  orange  planets  :  crimson  I 

Will  shine  and  shoot  among  the  spheres 

(Blithe  meteor  that  no  mortal  fears)  10 

And  thrid  the  heavenly  orange  tree 

With  orbits  bright  of  minstrelsy. 

If  that  I  hate  wild  winter's  spite  — 

The  gibbet  trees,  the  world  in  white, 

The  sky  but  gray  wind  over  a  grave  —  15 

Why  should  I  ache,  the  season's  slave  ? 

I'll  sing  from  the  top  of  the  orange  tree, 

Gramercy,  winter 's  tyranny. 

I'll  south  with  the  sun,  and  keep  my  clime ; 

My  wing  is  king  of  the  summer  time  ;  20 

My  breast  to  the  sun  his  torch  shall  hold  ; 

And  I'll  call  down  through  the  green  and  gold, 

Time,  take  thy  scythe,  reap  bliss  for  me, 

Bestir  thee  under  the  orange  tree.'11 

Tampa,  Florida,  1877. 

1  From  Poems  of  Sidney  Lanier.      Copyright,  1884,  1891,  by  Mary  D.  Lanier. 
Published  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


2/2  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

ETHEL    LYNN    BEERS 

1827-1879 

THE  author  of  this  popular  poem  was  born  at  Goshen,  New  York, 
and  died  at  Orange,  New  Jersey.  She  was  a  descendant  of  John  Eliot, 
the  apostle  to  the  Indians.  She  left  a  volume  of  poems,  of  which 
only  one  is  now  remembered. 

ALL   QUIET   ALONG   THE    POTOMAC 

"  ALL  quiet  along  the  Potomac,"  they  say, 

"  Except  now  and  then  a  stray  picket 
Is  shot,  as  he  walks  on  his  beat  to  and  fro, 

By  a  rifleman  hid  in  the  thicket. 
'Tis  nothing  —  a  private  or  two  now  and  then  5 

Will  not  count  in  the  news  of  the  battle  ; 
Not  an  officer  lost  —  only  one  of  the  men, 

Moaning  out,  all  alone,  the  death  rattle." 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 

Where  the  soldiers  lie  peacefully  dreaming ;  10 

Their  tents  in  the  rays  of  the  clear  autumn  moon, 

Or  the  light  of  the  watch  fire,  are  gleaming. 
A  tremulous  sigh  of  the  gentle  night  wind 

Through  the  forest  leaves  softly  is  creeping ; 
While  stars  up  above,  with  their  glittering  eyes,  15 

Keep  guard,  for  the  army  is  sleeping. 

There's  only  the  sound  of  the  lone  sentry's  tread, 

As  he  tramps  from  the  rock  to  the  fountain, 
And  thinks  of  the  two  in  the  low  trundle-bed 

Far  away  in  the  cot  on  the  mountain.  20 

His  musket  falls  slack ;  his  face,  dark  and  grim, 

Grows  gentle  with  memories  tender, 
As  he  mutters  a  prayer  for  the  children  asleep, 

For  their  mother  ;  may  Heaven  defend  her  ! 


MEREDITH  2/3 

The  moon  seems  to  shine  just  as  brightly  as  then, 

That  night,  when  the  love  yet  unspoken 
Leaped  up  to  his  lips  —  when  low-murmured  vows 

Were  pledged  to  be  ever  unbroken. 
Then  drawing  his  sleeve  roughly  over  his  eyes,  5 

He  dashes  off  tears  that  are  welling, 
And  gathers  his  gun  closer  up  to  its  place, 

As  if  to  keep  down  the  heart-swelling. 

He  passes  the  fountain,  the  blasted  pine  tree, 

The  footstep  is  lagging  and  weary ;  10 

Yet  onward  he  goes,  through  the  broad  belt  of  light, 

Toward  the  shade  of  the  forest  so  dreary. 
Hark  !  was  it  the  night  wind  that  rustled  the  leaves  ? 

Was  it  moonlight  so  wondrously  flashing  ? 
It  looked  like  a  rifle  .   .  .  "Ha!  Mary,  good-by!  "          15 

The  red  life-blood  is  ebbing  and  plashing. 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night ; 

No  sound  save  the  rush  of  the  river ; 
While  soft  falls  the  dew  on  the  face  of  the  dead  — 

The  picket's  off  duty  forever  !  20 


WILLIAM    TUCKEY    MEREDITH 

MR.  MEREDITH  was  born  in  Philadelphia.  He  served  as  a  young 
officer  under  Farragut  in  the  battle  of  Mobile  Bay,  and  after  the  war 
became  a  banker  in  New  York  city.  He  has  published  one  novel. 

FARRAGUT 

FARRAGUT,  Farragut, 

Old  Heart  of  Oak, 
Daring  Dave  Farragut> 

Thunderbolt  stroke, 
LONG'S  AM.  POEMS —  1 8 


274  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

Watches  the  hoary  mist 
Lift  from  the  bay, 

Till  his  flag,  glory-kissed, 
Greets  the  young  day. 

Far,  by  gray  Morgan's  walls, 

Looms  the  black  fleet. 
Hark,  deck  to  rampart  calls 

With  the  drum's  beat! 
Buoy  your  chains  overboard, 

While  the  steam  hums  ; 
Men!  to  the  battlement, 

Farrasrut  comes. 


See,  as  the  hurricane 

Hurtles  in  wrath 
Squadrons  of  clouds  amain  15 

Back  from  its  path  ! 
Back  to  the  parapet, 

To  the  guns'  lips, 
Thunderbolt  Farragut 

Hurls  the  black  ships.  20 

Now  through  the  battle's  roar 

Clear  the  boy  sings, 
"  By  the  mark  fathoms  four," 

While  his  lead  swings. 
Steady  the  wheelmen  five  25 

"  Nor'  by  East  keep  her," 
"  Steady,"  but  two  alive  : 

How  the  shells  sweep  her ! 

Lashed  to  the  mast  that  sways 

Over  red  decks,  3° 

Over  the  flame  that  plays 

Round  the  torn  wrecks, 


GILDER  275 

Over  the  dying  lips 

Framed  for  a  cheer, 
Farragut  leads  his  ships, 

Guides  the  line  clear. 

On  by  heights  battle-browed,  5 

While  the  spars  quiver  ; 
Onward  still  flames  the  cloud 

Where  the  hulks  shiver. 
See,  yon  fort's  star  is  set, 

Storm  and  fire  past.  10 

Cheer  him,  lads  —  Farragut, 

Lashed  to  the  mast ! 

Oh  !  while  Atlantic's  breast 

Bears  a  white  sail, 
While  the  Gulf's  towering  crest  15 

Tops  a  green  vale, 
Men  thy  bold  deeds  shall  tell, 

Old  Heart  of  Oak, 
Daring  Dave  Farragut, 

Thunderbolt  stroke  !  20 

Mobile  Bay,  5  August,  1864. 

RICHARD    WATSON    GILDER 

1844- 

MR.  GILDER  is  the  well-known  editor  of  the  Century  Magazine,  and 
the  judicious  friend  of  social  and  political  reform.  He  was  born  at 
Bordentown,  New  Jersey,  saw  service  in  the  Civil  War,  and  later 
engaged  in  journalism  in  Newark,  New  Jersey,  and  in  New  York  city. 
He  has  been  editor  in  chief  of  the  Century  for  more  than  twenty  years. 
The  Authors1  Club  was  founded  at  his  house,  and  he  has  been  for 
years  a  prominent  figure  in  literary  and  artistic  circles  in  his  adopted 
city.  He  married  the  granddaughter  of  Joseph  Rodman  Drake. 
His  verse,  in  several  volumes,  gives  him  high  rank  among  the  poets  of 
the  present  day. 


276  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

SHERMAN 

GLORY  and  honor  and  fame  and  everlasting  laudation 

For  our  captains  who  loved  not  war,  but  fought  for  the  life  of 

the  nation  ; 
Who  knew  that,   in  all  the  land,  one   slave    meant  strife,  not 

peace ; 
Who  fought  for  freedom,  not  glory ;  made  war  that  war  might 

cease. 

Glory  and  honor  and  fame  ;  the  beating  of  muffled  drums  ;         5 
The  wailing  funeral  dirge,  as  the  flag-wrapped  coffin  comes. 
Fame  and  honor  and  glory  ;  and  joy  for  a  noble  soul ; 
For  a  full  and  splendid  life,  and  laureled  rest  at  the  goal. 

Glory  and  honor  and  fame  ;  the  pomp  that  a  soldier  prizes  ; 
The  league-long  waving  line  as  the  marching  falls  and  rises  ;    10 
Rumbling  of  caissons  and  guns  ;  the  clatter  of  horses'  feet, 
And  a  million  awe-struck  faces  far  down  the  waiting  street. 

But  better  than  martial  woe,  and  the  pageant  of  civic  sorrow ; 
Better  than  praise  of  to-day,  or  the  statue  we  build  to-morrow ; 
Better  than  honor  and  glory,  and  history's  iron  pen,  15 

Was  the  thought  of  duty  done  and  the  love  of  his  fellow-men. 

GREAT   NATURE   IS   AN   ARMY  GAY 

GREAT  nature  is  an  army  gay, 

Resistless  marching  on  its  way  ; 

I  hear  the  bugles  clear  and  sweet, 

I  hear  the  tread  of  million  feet.  20 

Across  the  plain  I  see  it  pour  ; 
It  tramples  down  the  waving  grass ; 
Within  the  echoing  mountain  pass 
I  hear  a  thousand  cannon  roar. 


ROWLAND  277 

It  swarms  within  my  garden  gate ; 
My  deepest  well  it  drinketh  dry. 
It  doth  not  rest ;  it  doth  not  wait ; 
By  night  and  day  it  sweepeth  by ; 

Ceaseless  it  marches  by  my  door  ;  5 

It  heeds  me  not,  though  I  implore. 
I  know  not  whence  it  comes,  nor  where 
It  goes;  for  me  it  doth  not  care  — 
Whether  I  starve,  or  eat,  or  sleep, 

Or  live,  or  die,  or  sing,  or  weep.  10 

And  now  the  banners  all  are  bright, 
Now  torn  and  blackened  by  the  fight. 
Sometimes  its  laughter  shakes  the  sky, 
Sometimes  the  groans  of  those  who  die. 
Still  through  the  night  and  through  the  livelong  day       15 
The  infinite  army  marches  on  its  remorseless  way. 

MARY   WOOLSEY    ROWLAND 

1832-1864 

MARY  WOOLSEY,  whose  literary  reputation  rests  solely  upon  the 
poem  below,  was  the  wife  of  the  Rev.  R.  S.  Howland,  of  New  York 
city. 

IN    THE   HOSPITAL 

I  LAY  me  down  to  sleep, 
With  little  thought  or  care 
Whether  my  waking  find 

Me  here  or  there.  20 

A  bowing,  burdened  head, 
That  only  asks  to  rest, 
Unquestioning,  upon 
A  loving  breast. 


MIDDLE   PERIOD 

My  good  right  hand  forgets 
Its  cunning  now. 
To  march  the  weary  march 
I  know  not  how. 

I  am  not  eager,  bold,  5 

Nor  strong  —  all  that  is  past  ; 
I  am  ready  not  to  do 
At  last,  at  last. 

My  half  day's  work  is  done, 
And  this  is  all  my  part;  10 

I  give  a  patient  God 
My  patient  heart, 

And  grasp  His  banner  still, 
Though  all  its  blue  be  dim  ; 
These  stripes,  no  less  than  stars,  15 

Lead  after  Him. 


LLOYD    MIFFLIN 

1846- 

MR.  MIFFLIN  was  born  at  Columbia,  Pennsylvania,  where  he  has 
always  resided.  He  was  an  artist  earlier  in  life,  but  gave  up  painting 
for  poetry,  and  is  the  author  of  four  volumes  of  verse. 

SESOSTRIS 

SOLE  Lord  of  Lords  and  very  King  of  Kings,    . 

He  sits  within  the  desert,  carved  in  stone  ; 

Inscrutable,  colossal,  and  alone, 

And  ancienter  than  memory  of  things.  20 

Graved  on  his  front  the  sacred  beetle  clings  ; 

Disdain  sits  on  his  lips  ;  and  in  a  frown 

Scorn  lives  upon  his  forehead  for  a  crown. 

The  affrighted  ostrich  dares  not  dust  her  wings 


THOMPSON  279 

Anear  this  Presence.     The  long  caravan's 
Dazed  camels  stop,  and  mute  the  Bedouins  stare. 
This  symbol  of  past  power  more  than  man's 
Presages  doom.     Kings  look  —  and  Kings  despair: 
Their  scepters  tremble  in  their  jeweled  hands,  5 

And  dark  thrones  totter  in  the  baleful  air  ! 

MAURICE   THOMPSON 

1844-1901 

GEOLOGIST,  poet,  literary  critic,  and  lover  of  all  outdoor  things, 
Maurice  Thompson  was  born  at  Fairfield,  Indiana,  and  died  at  Craw- 
fordsville.  His  early  life  was  spent  in  Georgia,  and  he  was  a  soldier 
in  the  Confederate  army.  After  the  war  he  returned  to  Indiana,  where 
he  practiced  law  and  later  became  state  geologist.  About  ten  years 
before  his  death,  he  joined  the  literary  staff  of  the  New  York  Inde 
pendent.  Besides  poems  and  stories,  he  wrote  much  about  birds, 
archery,  fishing,  and  kindred  subjects.  Whatever  he  wrote  was  healthy 
in  tone  and  independent  in  spirit. 

A    PROPHECY 

FROM   "LINCOLN'S    GRAVE" 

OLD  soldiers  true,  ah,  them  all  men  can  trust, 
Who  fought,  with  conscience  clear,  on  either  side ; 
Who  bearded  Death  and  thought  their  cause  was  just ; 
Their  stainless  honor  cannot  be  denied  ;  10 

All  patriots  they  beyond  the  farthest  doubt ; 
Ring  it  and  sing  it  up  and  down  the  land, 
And  let  no  voice  dare  answer  it  with  sneers, 

Or  shut  its  meaning  out ; 

Ring  it  and  sing  it,  we  go  hand  in  hand,  15 

Old  infantry,  old  cavalry,  old  cannoneers. 

And  if  Virginia's  vales  shall  ring  again 

To  battle  yell  of  Mosby  or  Mahone, 

If  Wilder's  wild  brigade  or  Morgan's  men 


280  MIDDLE  PERIOD 

Once  more  wheel  into  line  ;  or  all  alone 
A  Sheridan  shall  ride,  a  Cleburne  fall,  — 
There  will  not  be  two  flags  above  them  flying, 
But  both  in  one,  welded  in  that  pure  flame 

Upflaring  in  us  all,  5 

When  kindred  unto  kindred,  loudly  crying, 
Rally  and  cheer  in  freedom's  holy  name ! 

WILL    HENRY    THOMPSON 

1848- 

MR.  THOMPSON  was  born  at  Calhoun,  Georgia,  and  in  recent  years 
has  resided  at  Seattle,  Washington.  He  shared  the  comradeship  of  his 
brother,  Maurice  Thompson,  in  outdoor  sports  and  in  the  Confederate 
army,  and  later  they  were  associated  in  the  practice  of  law  in  Indiana. 
Mr.  Thompson  is  noted  as  an  orator,  and  he  has  written  other  verse 
besides  the  strong  ballad  given  below. 

THE   HIGH    TIDE   AT   GETTYSBURG 

A  CLOUD  possessed  the  hollow  field, 

The  gathering  battle's  smoky  shield. 

Athwart  the  gloom  the  lightning  flashed,  10 

And  through  the  cloud  some  horsemen  dashed, 

And  from  the  heights  the  thunder  pealed. 

Then  at  the  brief  command  of  Lee 

Moved  out  that  matchless  infantry, 

With  Pickett  leading  grandly  down,  15 

To  rush  against  the  roaring  crown 

Of  those  dread  heights  of  destiny. 

Far  heard  above  the  angry  guns 

A  cry  across  the  tumult  runs,  — 

The  voice  that  rang  through  Shiloh's  woods  20 

And  Chickamauga's  solitudes, 

The  fierce  South  cheering  on  her  sons ! 


THOMPSON  28l 

Ah,  how  the  withering  tempest  blew 

Against  the  front  of  Pettigrew ! 

A  Khamsin  wind  that  scorched  and  singed 

Like  that  infernal  flame  that  fringed 

The  British  squares  at  Waterloo !  5 

A  thousand  fell  where  Kemper  led  ; 

A  thousand  died  where  Garnett  bled  : 

In  blinding  flame  and  strangling  smoke 

The  remnant  through  the  batteries  broke 

And  crossed  the  works  with  Armistead.  10 

"  Once  more  in  Glory's  van  with  me  !  " 

Virginia  cried  to  Tennessee  ; 

"  We  two  together,  come  what  may, 

Shall  stand  upon  these  works  to-day !  " 

(The  reddest  day  in  history.)  I5 

Brave  Tennessee  !     In  reckless  way 

Virginia  heard  her  comrade  say  : 

"  Close  round  this  rent  and  riddled  rag  !  " 

What  time  she  set  her  battle  flag 

Amid  the  guns  of  Doubleday.  20 

But  who  shall  break  the  guards  that  wait 

Before  the  awful  face  of  Fate  ? 

The  tattered  standards  of  the  South 

Were  shriveled  at  the  cannon's  mouth, 

And  all  her  hopes  were  desolate.  25 

In  vain  the  Tennesseean  set 

His  breast  against  the  bayonet ! 

In  vain  Virginia  charged  and  raged, 

A  tigress  in  her  wrath  uncaged, 

Till  all  the  hill  was  red  and  wet  !  70 


282  MIDDLE   PERIOD 

Above  the  bayonets,  mixed  and  crossed, 

Men  saw  a  gray,  gigantic  ghost 

Receding  through  the  battle  cloud, 

And  heard  across  the  tempest  loud 

The  death  cry  of  a  nation  lost !  $ 

The  brave  went  down  !     Without  disgrace 

They  leaped  to  Ruin's  red  embrace. 

They  only  heard  Fame's  thunders  wake, 

And  saw  the  dazzling  sunburst  break 

In  smiles  on  Glory's  bloody  face  !  10 

They  fell,  who  lifted  up  a  hand 

And  bade  the  sun  in  heaven  to  stand  ! 

They  smote  and  fell,  who  set  the  bars 

Against  the  progress  of  the  stars, 

And  stayed  the  march  of  Motherland  !  15 

They  stood,  who  saw  the  future  come 

On  through  the  fight's  delirium  ! 

They  smote  and  stood,  who  held  the  hope 

Of  nations  on  that  slippery  slope 

Amid  the  cheers  of  Christendom.  20 

God  lives  !     He  forged  the  iron  will 

That  clutched  and  held  that  trembling  hill. 

God  lives  and  reigns  !     He  built  and  lent 

The  heights  for  Freedom's  battlement 

Where  floats  her  flag  in  triumph  still !  25 

Fold  up  the  banners  !     Smelt  the  guns  ! 

Love  rules.     Her  gentler  purpose  runs. 

A  mighty  mother  turns  in  tears 

The  pages  of  her  battle  years, 

Lamenting  all  her  fallen  sons  1  30 


LATER   PERIOD 

HENRY   VAN    DYKE 

1852- 

ONE  of  the  most  variously  gifted  literary  men  of  the  present  day  is 
Dr.  Henry  van  Dyke.  He  was  born  in  Germantown,  Pennsylvania, 
and  was  graduated  from  Princeton.  Afterward  he  studied  theology 
both  at  the  Princeton  Theological  Seminary  and  in  Berlin.  For  many 
years  he  held  the  pastorate  of  the  Brick  Presbyterian  Church  in  New 
York  city,  and  he  has  been  moderator  of  the  Presbyterian  General 
Assembly.  Since  1899  he  has  held  the  Murray  professorship  of  English 
literature  at  Princeton. 

Dr.  van  Dyke's  intellectual  activity  extends  over  many  fields.  Sev 
eral  volumes  on  religious  subjects  have  come  from  his  pen,  and  one  of 
his  earlier  books  is  an  appreciative  study  of  the  poetry  of  Tennyson. 
In  very  recent  years  he  has  devoted  much  time  and  attention  to  story 
telling  and  to  poetry.  His  verse  always  possesses  sprightliness  and 
delicacy  of  imagination  and  shows  unusual  skill  in  the  handling  of  met 
rical  forms.  His  stories  are  marked  by  a  love  of  "  God's  blessed  out- 
of-doors,"  and  by  a  refinement  and  warmth  of  feeling — always  clothed 
in  apt  and  musical  language  —  which  make  them  highly  effective.  Dr. 
van  Dyke  has  an  enviable  reputation  as  a  forceful  pulpit  orator  and  as 
an  extremely  pleasing  lecturer  on  literary  subjects. 

TENNYSON  l 

IN   LUCEM   TRANSITUS,   OCTOBER,   1892 

FROM  the  misty  shores  of  midnight,  touched  with  splendors  of 

the  moon, 

To  the  singing  tides  of  heaven,  and  the  light  more  clear  than  noon, 
Passed  a  soul  that  grew  to  music  till  it  was  with  God  in  tune. 

1  From  The  Builders  and  Other  Poems.  Copyright,  1897,  by  Charles  Scribner's 
Sons. 

283 


2  84  LATER   PERIOD 

Brother  of  the  greatest  poets,  true  to  nature,  true  to  art ; 
Lover  of  Immortal  Love,  uplifter  of  the  human  heart,  — 
Who  shall  cheer  us  with  high  music,  who  shall  sing,  if  thou 
depart  ? 

Silence  here  — for  love  is  silent,  gazing  on  the  lessening  sail ; 
Silence  here  —  for  grief  is  voiceless  when  the  mighty  minstrels 

fail; 
Silence  here  —  but,  far  beyond  us,  many  voices  crying,  Hail  1 

AN    ANGLER'S    WISH1 


WHEN  tulips  bloom  in  Union  Square, 
And  timid  breaths  of  vernal  air 

Go  wandering  down  the  dusty  town, 
Like  children  lost  in  Vanity  Fair  ; 

When  every  long,  unlovely  row 
Of  westward  houses  stands  aglow, 

And  leads  the  eyes  towards  sunset  skies 
Beyond  the  hills  where  green  trees  grow,  — 

Then  weary  seems  the  street  parade, 
And  weary  books,  and  weary  trade : 
I'm  only  wishing  to  go  a-fishing ; 
For  this  the  month  of  May  was  made. 


I  guess  the  pussy  willows  now 

Are  creeping  out  on  every  bough  20 

Along  the  brook ;  and  robins  look 
For  early  worms  behind  the  plow. 

1  From  The  Builders  and  Other  Poems.     Copyright,  1897,  by  Charles  Scribner's 
Sons. 


VAN   DYKE  285 

The  thistle  birds  have  changed  their  dun 
For  yellow  coats,  to  match  the  sun  ; 

And  in  the  same  array  of  flame 
The  dandelion  show's  begun. 

The  flocks  of  young  anemones  5 

Are  dancing  round  the  budding  trees : 

Who  can  help  wishing  to  go  a-fishing 
In  days  as  full  of  joy  as  these  ? 

in 

I  think  the  meadow  lark's  clear  sound 

Leaks  upward  slowly  from  the  ground,  10 

While  on  the  wing  the  bluebirds  ring 
Their  wedding  bells  to  woods  around. 

The  flirting  chewink  calls  his  dear 
Behind  the  bush  ;  and  very  near, 

Where  water  flows,  where  green  grass  grows,  15 

Song  sparrows  gently  sing,  "  Good  cheer." 

And,  best  of  all,  through  twilight's  calm 
The  hermit  thrush  repeats  his  psalm. 

How  much  I'm  wishing  to  go  a-fishing 
In  days  so  sweet  with  music's  balm  1  20 

IV 

'Tis  not  a  proud  desire  of  mine  ; 
I  ask  for  nothing  superfine  ; 

No  heavy  weight,  no  salmon  great, 
To  break  the  record  —  or  my  line  : 

Only  an  idle  little  stream,  25 

^hose  amber  waters  softly  gleam, 

Where  I  may  wade,  through  woodland  shade, 
And  cast  the  fly,  and  loaf,  and  dream : 


LATER   PERIOD 

Only  a  trout  or  two,  to  dart 

From  foaming  pools,  and  try  my  art : 

No  more  I'm  wishing —  old-fashioned  fishing, 

And  just  a  day  on  Nature's  heart. 

THE  SONG  SPARROW1 

THERE  is  a  bird  I  know  so  well, 

It  seems  as  if  he  must  have  sung 

Beside  my  crib  when  I  was  young ; 
Before  I  knew  the  way  to  spell 

The  name  of  even  the  smallest  bird, 

His  gentle-joyful  song  I  heard.  , 

Now  see  if  you  can  tell,  my  dear, 
What  bird  it  is  that,  every  year, 
Sings  "Sweet—  sweet —sweet — very  merry  cheer." 

He  comes  in  March  when  winds  are  strong, 

And  snow  returns  to  hide  the  earth  ;  '    i; 

But  still  he  warms  his  heart  with  mirth, 
And  waits  for  May.     He  lingers  long 

While  flowers  fade  ;  and  every  day 

Repeats  his  small,  contented  lay ; 

As  if  to  say,  we  need  not  fear  2C 

The  season's  change,  if  love  is  here 
With  ' '  Sweet  —  sweet  —  sweet  —  very  merry  cheer. ' ' 

.He  does  not  wear  a  Joseph's  coat 

Of  many  colors,  smart  and  gay  ; 

His  suit  is  Quaker  brown  and  gray,  25 

With  darker  patches  at  his  throat. 

And  yet  of  all  the  well-dressed  throng 

Not  one  can  sing  so  brave  a  song. 

i  From  The  Builders  and  Other  Poems.     Copyright,  1897,  by  Charles  Scribner's 
oons. 


It  makes  the  pride  of  looks  appear 

A  vain  and  foolish  thing,  to  hear 

His  "  Sweet  —  sweet—  sweet  — very  merry  cheer." 

EUGENE    FIELD 

1850-1895 

AMERICA  has  produced  no  more  popular  writer  of  verse  for  children 
than  Eugene  Field.  He  was  born  in  St.  Louis,  Missouri,  of  New  En<- 
land  ancestry,  and  died  at  Chicago,  in  the  prime  of  his  powers.  His 
education  was  received  at  Williams  College  and  at  the  University  of 
Missouri.  His  vocation  was  journalism.  He  did  work  for  newspapers 
at  St.  Louis,  Kansas  City,  and  Denver,  and  during  the  last  years  of 
his  life  he  was  connected  with  the  Chicago  Daily  News.  He  found 
time  to  write  several  volumes  of  charming  stories  and  verse.  His 
untimely  death  has  been  sincerely  deplored.  He  was  sunny  in  temper 
and  possessed  a  nimble  imagination  and  a  facile  pen. 

WYNKEN,    BLYNKEN,   AND    NOD1 

WYNKEN,  Blynken,  and  Nod  one  night 

Sailed  off  in  a  wooden  shoe,  — 
Sailed  on  a  river  of  crystal  light 

Into  a  sea  of  dew. 
"  Where  are  you  going,  and  what  do  you  wish  ?  " 

The  old  moon  asked  the  three. 

"  We  have  come  to  fish  for  the  herring-fish  I0 

That  live  in  this  beautiful  sea ; 
Nets  of  silver  and  gold  have  we," 
Said  Wynken 
Blynken, 
And  Nod.  J5 

The  old  moon  laughed  and  sang  a  song, 
As  they  rocked  in  the  wooden  shoe  ; 

P  xr  fT   Wltk  Trumpet  and  Drum'     Copyright,  1892,  by  Mary  French  Field. 
Published  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


288  LATER   PERIOD 

And  the  wind  that  sped  them  all  night  long 

Ruffled  the  waves  of  dew  ; 
The  little  stars  were  the  herring-fish 

That  lived  in  the  beautiful  sea. 

"  Now  cast  your  nets  wherever  you  wish,  —  5 

Never  afeard  are  we!  " 
So  cried  the  stars  to  the  fishermen  three, 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod.  10 

All  night  long  their  nets  they  threw 

To  the  stars  in  the  twinkling  foam,  — 
Then  down  from  the  skies  came  the  wooden  shoe, 

Bringing  the  fishermen  home  : 
'Twas  all  so  pretty  a  sail,  it  seemed  15 

As  if  it  could  not  be  ; 

And  some  folks  thought  'twas  a  dream  they'd  dreamed 
Of  sailing  that  beautiful  sea  ; 
But  I  shall  name  you  the  fishermen  three : 

Wynken,  20 

Blynken, 

And  Nod. 

Wynken  and  Blynken  are  two  little  eyes, 

And  Nod  is  a  little  head, 
And  the  wooden  shoe  that  sailed  the  skies  25 

Is  a  wee  one's  trundle-bed  ; 
So  shut  your  eyes  while  Mother  sings 

Of  wonderful  sights  that  be, 
And  you  shall  see  the  beautiful  things 

As  you  rock  on  the  misty  sea  3° 

Where  the  old  shoe  rocked  the  fishermen  three,  — 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 


FIELD  289 

LITTLE   BOY    BLUE1 

THE  little  toy  dog  is  covered  with  dust, 

But  sturdy  and  stanch  he  stands  ; 
And  the  little  toy  soldier  is  red  with  rust, 

And  his  musket  moulds  in  his  hands. 
Time  was  when  the  little  toy  dog  was  new,  5 

And  the  soldier  was  passing  fair ; 
And  that  was  the  time  when  our  Little  Boy  Blue 

Kissed  them  and  put  them  there. 

"  Now,  don't  you  go  till  I  come,"  he  said, 

"  And  don't  you  make  any  noise  !  "  10 

So,  toddling  off  to  his  trundle-bed, 

He  dreamt  of  the  pretty  toys. 
And,  as  he  was  dreaming,  an  angel  song 

Awakened  our  Little  Boy  Blue  — 
Oh  !  the  years  are  many,  the  years  are  long,  15 

But  the  little  toy  friends  are  true ! 

Ay,  faithful  to  Little  Boy  Blue  they  stand, 

Each  in  the  same  old  place, 
Awaiting  the  touch  of  a  little  hand, 

The  smile  of  a  little  face  ;  20 

And  they  wonder,  as  waiting  the  long  years  through 

In  the  dust  of  that  little  chair, 
What  has  become  of  our  Little  Boy  Blue, 

Since  he  kissed  them  and  put  them  there. 

1  From   With  Trumpet  and  Drum.     Copyright,  1892,  by  Mary   French  Field. 
Published  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


LONG'S  AM.  POEMS —  19 


2QO  LATER   PERIOD 

EDWIN    MARKHAM 

1852- 

MR.  MARKHAM  was  born  at  Oregon  City,  Oregon,  where  his  parents 
had  removed  from  Michigan,  and  was  educated  at  Christian  College, 
Santa  Rosa,  California.  For  many  years  he  was  actively  engaged  in 
educational  work  in  California,  serving  as  principal  of  various  schools, 
and  in  other  ways  aiding  the  cause  of  educational  progress.  After  he 
had  won  sudden  fame  by  his  poem,  77/6'  Man  with  the  Hoe.  he  removed 
to  Brooklyn,  New  York,  where  he  is  engaged  in  literary  work.  He  has 
published  two  volumes  of  poems. 

THE    MAN    WITH    THE    HOE 

WRITTEN    AFTER   SEEING   THE    PAINTING   BY  MILLET 
God  made  man  in  His  own  image,  in  the  image  of  God  made  He  him.  —  GENESIS. 

BOWED  by  the  weight  of  centuries  he  leans 

Upon  his  hoe  and  gazes  on  the  ground, 

The  emptiness  of  ages  in  his  face, 

And  on  his  back  the  burden  of  the  world. 

Who  made  him  dead  to  rapture  and  despair,  5 

A  thing  that  grieves  not  and  that  never  hopes, 

Stolid  and  stunned,  a  brother  to  the  ox  ? 

Who  loosened  and  let  down  this  brutal  jaw  ? 

Whose  was  the  hand  that  slanted  back  this  brow  ? 

Whose  breath  blew  out  the  light  within  this  brain  ?          10 

Is  this  the  Thing  the  Lord  God  made  and  gave 

To  have  dominion  over  sea  and  land  ; 

To  trace  the  stars  and  search  the  heavens  for  power ; 

To  feel  the  passion  of  Eternity  ? 

Is  this  the  Dream  He  dreamed  who  shaped  the  suns      15 

And  pillared  the  blue  firmament  with  light  ? 

Down  all  the  stretch  of  Hell  to  its  last  gulf 


MARKHAM  29 1 

There  is  no  shape  more  terrible  than  this  — 
More  tongued  with  censure  of  the  world's  blind  greed  — 
More  filled  with  signs  and  portents  for  the  soul  — 
More  fraught  with  menace  to  the  universe. 

What  gulfs  between  him  and  the  seraphim !  5 

Slave  of  the  wheel  of  labor,  what  to  him 

Are  Plato  and  the  swing  of  Pleiades  ? 

What  the  long  reaches  of  the  peaks  of  song, 

The  rift  of  dawn,  the  reddening  of  the  rose  ? 

Through  this  dread  shape  the  suffering  ages  look ;          10 

Time's  tragedy  is  in  that  aching  stoop  ; 

Through  this  dread  shape  humanity  betrayed, 

Plundered,  profaned,  and  disinherited, 

Cries  protest  to  the  Judges  of  the  World, 

A  protest  that  is  also  prophecy.  15 

O  masters,  lords,  and  rulers  in  all  lands, 

Is  this  the  handiwork  you  give  to  God, 

This  monstrous  thing  distorted  and  soul-quenched  ? 

How  will  you  ever  straighten  up  this  shape  ; 

Touch  it  again  with  immortality ;  20 

Give  back  the  upward  looking  and  the  light ; 

Rebuild  in  it  the  music  and  the  dream  ; 

Make  right  the  immemorial  infamies, 

Perfidious  wrongs,  immedicable  woes  ? 

O  masters,  lords,  and  rulers  in  all  lands,  2; 

How  will  the  Future  reckon  with  this  Man  ? 

How  answer  his  brute  question  in  that  hour 

When  whirlwinds  of  rebellion  shake  the  world  ? 

How  will  it  be  with  kingdoms  and  with  kings  — 

With  those  who  shaped  him  to  the  thing  he  is  —  30 

When  this  dumb  Terror  shall  reply  to  God, 

After  the  silence  of  the  centuries  ? 


LATER   PERIOD 

JOHN    VANCE    CHENEY 

1848- 

THE  poem  given  below  is  considered  the  best  of  the  numerous  replies 
to  Mr.  Markham's  TJie  Man  with  the  Hoe.  Mr.  Cheney  was  born  at 
Groveland,  New  York,  and  once  practiced  law  in  New  York  city. 
Since  1887,  however,  he  has  been  at  the  head  of  libraries  in  San 
Francisco  and  in  Chicago.  His  verse  has  appeared  frequently  in 
various  periodicals,  and  has  been  collected  into  several  volumes.  He 
has  also  published  two  volumes  of  essays. 

THE    MAN    WITH    THE    HOE 

A   REPLY 

Let  us  a  little  permit  Nature  to  take  her  own  way;  she  better  understands  her 
own  affairs  than  we. —  MONTAIGNE. 

NATURE  reads  not  our  labels,  "great  "  and  "  small  "  ; 
Accepts  she  one  and  all 

Who,  striving,  win  and  hold  the  vacant  place  ; 
All  are  of  royal  race. 

Him,  there,  rough-cast,  with  rigid  arm  and  limb,  5 

The  Mother  moulded  him, 

Of  his  rude  realm  ruler  and  demigod, 
Lord  of  the  rock  and  clod. 

With  Nature  is  no  "  better  "  and  no  "  worse," 

On  this  bared  head  no  curse.  10 

Humbled  it  is  and  bowed ;  so  is  he  crowned 
Whose  kingdom  is  the  ground, 

Diverse  the  burdens  on  the  one  stern  road 
Where  bears  each  back  its  load  ; 


CHENEY  393 

Varied  the  toil,  but  neither  high  nor  low. 
With  pen  or  sword  or  hoe, 

He  that  has  put  out  strength,  lo,  he  is  strong ; 
Of  him  with  spade  or  song 

Nature  but  questions,  —  "  This  one,  shall  he  stay  ?  "        5 
She  answers  "  Yea,"  or  "  Nay," 

"  Well,  ill,  he  digs,  he  sings ;  "  and  he  bides  on, 
Or  shudders,  and  is  gone. 

Strength  shall  he  have,  the  toiler,  strength  and  grace, 
So  fitted  to  his  place  10 

As  he  leaned,  there,  an  oak  where  sea  winds  blow, 
Our  brother  with  the  hoe. 

No  blot,  no  monster,  no  unsightly  thing, 
The  soil's  long-lineaged  king  ; 

His  changeless  realm,  he  knows  it  and  commands  ;        15 
Erect  enough  he  stands, 

Tall  as  his  toil.     Nor  does  he  bow  unblest : 
Labor  he  has,  and  rest. 

Need  was,  need  is,  and  need  will  ever  be 

For  him  and  such  as  he  ;  20 

Cast  for  the  gap.  with  gnarled  arm  and  limb, 
The  Mother  moulded  him,  — 

Long  wrought,  and  moulded  him  with  mother's  care. 
Before  she  set  him  there. 

And  aye  she  gives  him,  mindful  of  her  own,  25 

Peace  of  the  plant,  the  stone ; 


2Q4  LATER    PERIOD 

Yea,  since  above  his  work  he  may  not  rise, 
She  makes  the  field  his  skies. 

See  !  she  that  bore  him,  and  metes  out  the  lot, 
He  serves  her.     Vex  him  not 

To  scorn  the  rock  whence  he  was  hewn,  the  pit 
And  what  was  digged  from  it ; 

Lest  he  no  more  in  native  virtue  stand, 
The  earth-sword  in  his  hand, 

But  follow7  sorry  phantoms  to  and  fro, 
And  let  a  kingdom  go. 


EDITH    MATILDA    THOMAS 

1854- 

Miss  THOMAS  was  born  in  Chatham,  Ohio,  but  since  1888  she  has 
made  her  home  in  N.ew  York  city.  She  has  written  much  for  the 
magazines,  both  in  prose  and  verse,  and  her  writings  have  been 
gathered  into  several  volumes.  Her  verse  is  marked  by  delicacy  of 
thought,  sincerity  of  feeling,  and  exquisiteness  of  finish. 

MOTHER   ENGLAND 


THERE  was  a  rover  from  a  western  shore, 

England  !  whose  eyes  the  sudden  tears  did  drown, 

Beholding  the  white  cliff  and  sunny  down 

Of  thy  good  realm,  beyond  the  sea's  uproar. 

I,  for  a  moment,  dreamed  that,  long  before,  15 

I  had  beheld  them  thus,  when,  with  the  frown 

Of  sovereignty,  the  victor's  palm  and  crown 


THOMAS  295 

Thou  from  the  tilting  field  of  nations  bore. 

Thy  prowess  and  thy  glory  dazzled  first ; 

But  when  in  fields  I  saw  the  tender  flame 

Of  primroses,  and  full-fleeced  lambs  at  play, 

Meseeined  I  at  thy  breast,  like  these,  was  nursed  ;  5 

Then  mother  —  Mother  England  !  —  home  I  came, 

Like  one  who  hath  been  all  too  long  away ! 

II 

As  nestling  at  thy  feet  in  peace  I  lay, 

A  thought  awoke  and  restless  stirred  in  me : 

"  My  land  and  congeners  are  beyond  the  sea,  10 

Theirs  is  the  morning  and  the  evening  day. 

Wilt  thou  give  ear  while  this  of  them  I  say  : 

'  Haughty  art  thou,  and  they  are  bold  and  free, 

As  well  befits  who  have  descent  from  thee, 

And  who  have  trodden  brave  the  forlorn  way.  15 

Children  of  thine,  but  grown  to  strong  estate  ; 

Nor  scorn  from  thee  would  they  be  slow  to  pay, 

Nor  check  from  thee  submissly  would  they  bear ; 

Yet  Mother  England!  yet  their  hearts  are  great, 

And  if  for  thee  should  dawn  some  darkest  day,  20 

At  cry  of  thine,  how  proudly  would  they  dare  ! '  " 

THE   MOTHER   WHO    DIED   TOO 

SHE  was  so  little — little  in  her  grave, 

The  wide  earth  all  around  so  hard  and  cold  — 
She  was  so  little  !  therefore  did  I  crave 

My  arms  might  still  her  tender  form  enfold.  25 

She  was  so  little,  and  her  cry  so  weak 

When  she  among  the  heavenly  children  came  — 
She  was  so  little  —  I  alone  might  speak 

For  her  who  knew  no  word  nor  her  own  name, 


296  LATER   PERIOD 

JAMES    WHITCOMB    RILEY 

1853- 

MR.  RILEY  was  born  at  Greenfield,  Indiana,  where  his  father  was  a 
lawyer.  For  some  years  he  was  engaged  in  journalism,  both  in  Green 
field  and  in  Indianapolis.  Much  of  his  early  verse,  in  the  Hoosier  dia 
lect,  first  appeared  in  the  newspapers.  It  attracted  wide  attention,  and 
several  volumes  of  verse  followed.  In  recent  years  he  has  resided  at 
Indianapolis,  but  he  has  traveled  widely,  and  has  been  unusually  suc 
cessful  in  giving  readings  from  his  own  verse. 

THE   OLD    MAN    AND    JIM 

OLD  man  never  bad  much  to  say  — 

'Ceptin'  to  Jim,  — 
And  Jim  waXthe  wildest  boy  he  had  — 

And  the  oldNnan  jes'  wrapped  up  in  him  ! 
Never  heerd  him  speak  but  once 
Er  twice  in  my  life,  — and  first  time  was 
When  the  army  broke  out,  and  Jim  he  went, 
The  old  man  backin'  him,  fer  three  months  ; 
And  all  'at  I  heerd  the  old  man  say 
Was,  jes'  as  we  turned  to  start  away,  —  I0 

"  Well,  good-by,  Jim  : 

Take  keer  of  yourse'f !  " 

'Feared  like  he  was  more  satisfied 

Jes'  lookhi1  at  Jim 
And  likin'  him  all  to  hisse'f-like,  see  ? —  i5 

'Cause  he  was  jes'  wrapped  up  in  him  1 
And  over  and  over  I  mind  the  day 
The  old  man  come  and  stood  round  in  the  way 
While  we  was  drillin',  a-watchin'  Jim—  f 

And  down  at  the  deepot  a-heerin'  him  say,  20 

"Well,  good-by,  Jim: 

Take  keer  of  yourse'f  !  '? 


RILEY  297 

Never  was  nothin'  about  the  farm 

Disting'ished  Jim ; 
Neighbors  all  ust  to  wonder  why 

The  old  man  'peared  wrapped  up  in  him : 
But  when  Cap.  Biggler,  he  writ  back  5 

'At  Jim  was  the  bravest  boy  we  had 
In  the  whole  dern  rigiment,  white  er  black, 
And  his  fightin'  good  as  his  farmin'  bad  — 
?At  he  had  led,  with  a  bullet  clean 
Bored  through  his  thigh,  and  carried  the  flag  10 

Through  the  bloodiest  battle  you  ever  seen, — 
The  old  man  wound  up  a  letter  to  him 
'At  Cap.  read  to  us,  'at  said  :  "  Tell  Jim 

Good-by, 

And  take  keer  of  hisse'f  !  "  i5 

Jim  come  home  jes'  long  enough 

To  take  the  whim 
'At  he'd  like  to  go  back  in  the  calvery  — 

And  the  old  man  jes'  wrapped  up  in  him ! 
Jim  'lowed  'at  he'd  had  sich  luck  afore,  20 

Guessed  he'd  tackle  her  three  years  more. 
And  the  old  man  give  him  a  colt  he'd  raised, 
And  follered  him  over  to  Camp  Ben  Wade, 
And  laid  around  fer  a  week  er  so, 
Watchin'  Jim  on  dress-parade  —  25 

'Tel  finally  he  rid  away, 
And  last  he  heerd  was  the  old  man  say,  — 

"  Well,  good-by,  Jim  : 

Take  keer  of  yourse'f !  " 

Tuk  the  papers,  the  old  man  did,  3? 

A-watchin'  fer  Jim, 
Fully  believin'  he'd  make  his  mark 

Some  way  —  jes'  wrapped  up  in  him  !  — 


298  LATER    PERIOD 

And  many  a  time  the  word  'ud  come 

'At  stirred  him  up  like  the  tap  of  a  drum  — 

At  Petersburg,  fer  instunce,  where 

Jim  rid  right  into  their  cannons  there, 

And  tuk  'em,  and  p'inted  'em  t'other  way,  5 

And  socked  it  home  to  the  boys  in  gray, 

As  they  skooted  fer  timber,  and  on  and  on  — 

Jim  a  lieutenant,  and  one  arm  gone, 

And  the  old  man's  words  in  his  mind  all  day,  — 

"  Well,  good-by,  Jim  :  10 

Take  keer  of  yourse'f  !  " 

Think  of  a  private,  now,  perhaps, 

We'll  say  like  Jim, 
'At's  clumb  clean  up  to  the  shoulder-straps  — 

And  the  old  man  jes'  wrapped  up  in  him  !  15 

Think  of  him  —  with  the  war  plum'  through, 
And  the  glorious  old  Red-White-and-Blue 
A-laughin'  the  news  down  over  Jim, 
And  the  old  man,  bendin'  over  him  — 
The  surgeon  turnin'  away  with  tears  20 

'At  hadn't  leaked  fer  years  and  years, 
As  the  hand  of  the  dyin'  boy  clung  to 
His  Father's,  the  old  voice  in  his  ears,  — 

"Well,  good-by,  Jim: 

Take  keer  of  yourse'f  !  "  25 

IKE  WALTON'S    PRAYER1 

I  CRAVE,  dear  Lord, 

No  boundless  hoard 

Of  gold  and  gear, 

Nor  jewels  fine, 

1  Used  by  special  permission  of  The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company,  publishers.     From 
Afttrwhiles.     Copyright,  189$. 


RILEY  299 

Nor  lands,  nor  kine, 
Nor  treasure  heaps  of  anything.  — 

Let  but  a  little  hut  be  mine 
Where  at  the  hearthstone  I  may  hear 
The  cricket  sing, 
And  have  the  shine 
Of  one  glad  woman's  eyes  to  make, 
For  my  poor  sake, 

Our  simple  home  a  place  divine ;  — 
Just  the  wee  cot  —  the  cricket's  chirr —  J0 

Love,  and  the  smiling  face  of  her. 

I  pray  not  for 
Great  riches,  nor 

For  vast  estates  and  castle-halls,, — 
Give  me  to  hear  the  bare  footfalls  15 

Of  children  o'er 
An  oaken  floor 

New-rinsed  with  sunshine,  or  bespread 
With  but  the  tiny  coverlet 

And  pillow  for  the  baby's  head  ;  20 

And,  pray  Thou,  may 
The  door  stand  open  and  the  day 
Send  ever  in  a  gentle  breeze, 
With  fragrance  from  the  locust-trees, 

And  drowsy  moan  of  doves,  and  blur         25 
Of  robin-chirps,  and  drone  of  bees, 

With  afterhushes  of  the  stir 
Of  intermingling  sounds,  and  then 

The  goodwife  and  the  smile  of  her 
Filling  the  silences  again  —  30 

The  cricket's  call, 

And  the  wee  cot, 
Dear  Lord  of  all, 
Deny  me  not ! 


300  LATER   PERIOD 

I  pray  not  that 
Men  tremble  at 
My  power  of  place 

And  lordly  sway,  — 

I  only  pray  for  simple  grace  5 

To  look  my  neighbor  in  the  face 

Full  honestly  from  day  to  day  — 
Yield  me  his  horny  palm  to  hold, 
And  I'll  not  pray 

For  gold  ;  -  I0 

The  tanned  face,  garlanded  with  mirth, 
It  hath  the  kingliest  smile  on  earth  — 
The  swart  brow,  diamonded  with  sweat, 
Hath  never  need  of  coronet. 

And  so  I  reach,  15 

Dear  Lord,  to  Thee, 
And  do  beseech 

Thou  givest  me 

The  wee  cot,  and  the  cricket's  chirr, 
Love,  and  the  glad  sweet  face  of  her  !  20 


EUGENE    FITCH    WARE 

1841- 

MR.  WARE,  known  to  readers  of  poetry  as  "  Ironquill,"  was  born  at 
Hartford,  Connecticut.  He  served  during  the  Civil  War,  and  afterward 
was  captain  of  cavalry  and  aide  to  General  G.  M.  Dodge.  His  later  life 
has  been  identified  with  Kansas,  where  he  has  been  prominent  in  politics. 
He  was  appointed  Commissioner  of  Pensions  by  President  Roosevelt. 
His  volume  of  verse.  The  Rhymes  of  Ironquill,  has  gone  through  several 
edition".  Through  these  rhymes  sweep  the  invigorating  breezes  of  the 
West.  Mr.  Ware  carries  forward,  in  his  own  way,  the  work  so  effec 
tively  done  by  Bret  Harte,  Joaquin  Miller,  and  the  late  Colonel  John 
Hay.  As  time  goes  on,  the  virile  spirit  of  the  West  will  find  still  ampler 
expression. 


WARE 


301 


QUIVERA  — KANSAS 

1542  —  1892 

IN  that  half- forgotten  era, 

With  the  avarice  of  old, 

Seeking  cities  that  'twas  told 

Had  been  paved  with  solid  gold, 
In  the  kingdom  of  Quivera—  5 

Came  the  restless  Coronado 

To  the  open  Kansas  plain, 

With  his  knights  from  sunny  Spain  ; 

In  an  effort  that,  though  vain, 
Thrilled  with  boldness  and  bravado.  J0 

League  by  league,  in  aimless  marching, 

Knowing  scarcely  where  or  why, 

Crossed  they  uplands  drear  and  dry, 

That  an  unprotected  sky 
Had  for  centuries  been  parching.  15 

But  their  expectations,  eager, 

Found,  instead  of  fruitful  lands, 

Shallow  streams  and  shifting  sands, 

Where  the  buffalo  in  bands 
Roamed  o'er  deserts  dry  and  meager.  20 

Back  to  scenes  more  trite,  yet  tragic, 

Marched  the  knights  with  armor'd  steeds; 
Not  for  them  the  quiet  deeds ; 
Not  for  them  to  sow  the  seeds 

From  which  empires  grow  like  magic.  25 

Never  land  so  hunger  stricken 

Could  a  Latin  race  re-mold  ; 

They  could  conquer  heat  or  cold  — 

Die  for  glory  or  for  gold  — 
But  not  make  a  desert  quicken.  30 


302 


LATER   PERIOD 

Thus  Quivera  was  forsaken  ; 
And  the  world  forgot  the  place 
Through  the  lapse  of  time  and  space. 
Then  the  blue-eyed  Saxon  race 

Came  and  bade  the  desert  waken.  5 

And  it  bade  the  climate  vary ; 

And  awaiting  no  reply 

From  the  elements  on  high, 

It  with  plows  besieged  the  sky  — 
Vexed  the  heavens  with  the  prairie.  TO 

Then  the  vitreous  sky  relented, 

And  the  unacquainted  rain 

Fell  upon  the  thirsty  plain 

Whence  had  gone  the  knights  of  Spain, 
Disappointed,  discontented.  15 

Sturdy  are  the  Saxon  faces, 

As  they  move  along  in  line  ; 

Bright  the  rolling  cutters  shine, 

Charging  up  the  State's  incline, 
As  an  army  storms  a  glacis.  20 

Cities  grow  where  stunted  birches 

Hugged  the  shallow  water  line ; 

And  the  deepening  rivers  twine 

Past  the  factory  and  mine, 
Orchard  slopes  and  schools  and  churches.  25 

Deeper  grows  the  soil  and  truer, 

More  and  more  the  prairie  teems 

With  a  fruitage  as  of  dreams  ; 

Clearer,  deeper,  flow  the  streams, 
Blander  grows  the  sky,  and  bluer.  3° 


LUDERS  303 

We  have  made  the  State  of  Kansas, 
And  to-day  she  stands  complete  — 
First  in  freedom,  first  in  wheat ; 
And  her  future  years  will  meet 

Ripened  hopes  and  richer  stanzas.  5 

CHARLES    HENRY    LUDERS 

1858-1891 

AN  unusually  promising  career  was  cut  short  by  the  early  death  of 
Liiders.  He  was  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  magazines,  in  both  prose 
and  verse,  and  left  behind  one  volume  of  poetry.  He  was  born  in 
Philadelphia,  where  he  died. 

THE   FOUR   WINDS1 
WIND  of  the  North, 
Wind  of  the  Norland  snows, 

Wind  of  the  winnowed  skies,  and  sharp,  clear  stars, 

Blow  cold  and  keen  across  the  naked  hills, 

And  crisp  the  lowland  pools  with  crystal  films,  J0 

And  blur  the  casement  squares  with  glittering  ice, 

But  go  not  near  my  love. 

Wind  of  the  West, 

Wind  of  the  few,  far  clouds, 

Wind  of  the  gold  and  crimson  sunset  lands,  —  15 

Blow  fresh  and  pure  across  the  peaks  and  plains, 

And  broaden  the  blue  spaces  of  the  heavens, 

And  sway  the  grasses  and  the  mountain  pines, 

But  let  my  dear  one  rest. 

Wind  of  the  East,  20 

Wind  of  the  sunrise  seas, 

Wind  of  the  clinging  mists  and  gray,  harsh  rains, — 

Blow  moist  and  chill  across  the  wastes  of  brine, 

1  From    The  Dead  Nymph  and   Other  Poems.      Copyright,  1891,  by   Charles 
Scribner's  Sons. 


304  LATER   PERIOD 

And  shut  the  sun  out,  and  the  moon  and  stars, 
And  lash  the  boughs  against  the  dripping  eaves, 
Yet  keep  thou  from  my  love. 

But  thou,  sweet  wind  ! 

Wind  of  the  fragrant  South, 

Wind  from  the  bowers  of  jasmine  and  of  rose,  — 

Over  magnolia  blooms  and  lilied  lakes 

And  flowering  forests  come  with  dewy  wings, 

And  stir  the  petals  at  her  feet,  and  kiss 

The  low  mound  where  she  lies.  10 

HENRY    CUYLER    BUNNER 

1855-1896 

BUXXKR  was  for  several  years  the  chief  editor  of  ruck.  He  was  born 
at  Oswego,  New  York,  and  died  at  Nutley,  New  Jersey.  Both  in  fiction 
and  in  verse  his  popularity  was  extensive  in  his  lifetime,  and  a  few  of 
his  poems,  marked  by  grace  and  lightness  of  touch,  bid  fair  to  live  long. 
His  joyous  spirit  won  him  a  wide  circle  of  devoted  friends. 

THE   WAY    TO    ARCADY1 

OH,  wliafs  the  way  to  Arcady, 

7o  A  ready,  to  A  ready  ; 
O/i,  whafs  the  way  to  Arcady, 

Where  all  the  leaves  are  merry  ? 

Oh,  what's  the  way  to  Arcady?  15 

The  spring  is  rustling  in  the  tree,  — 
The  tree  the  wind  is  blowing  through, — 

It  sets  the  blossoms  flickering  white. 
I  knew  not  skies  coulcl  burn  so  blue 

Nor  any  breezes  blow  so  light.  20 

They  blow  an  old-time  way  for  me, 
Across  the  world  to  Arcady. 

1  From  Poems  of  H.  C.  Bunner.  Copyright,  1884,  1892,  1896,  1899,  by  Charles 
Scribncr's  Sons. 


BUNNER  305 

Oh,  what's  the  way  to  Arcady  ? 

Sir  Poet,  with  the  rusty  coat, 

Quit  mocking  of  the  song  bird's  note. 

How  have  you  heart  for  any  tune, 

You  with  the  wayworn  russet  shoon  ?  5 

Your  scrip,  a-swinging  by  your  side, 

Gapes  with  a  gaunt  mouth  hungry-wide. 

I'll  brim  it  well  with  pieces  red, 

If  you  will  tell  the  way  to  tread. 

Oh,  I  am  bound  for  Arcady,  10 

And  if  you  but  keep  pace  with  me 
You  tread  the  way -to  Arcady, 

And  where  away  lies  Arcady, 

And  how  long  yet  may  the  journey  be  ? 

Ah,  that  (quoth  he)  /  do  not  know  :  15 

Across  the  clover  and  the  snow  — 
Across  the  frost,  across  the  flowers  — 
Through  summer  seconds  and  winter  hours, 
Pve  trod  the  way  my  whole  life  long, 

And  know  not  now  where  it  may  be  ;  2o 

My  guide  is  but  the  stir  to  song, 
That  tells  me  I  cannot  go  wrong, 

Or  clear  or  dark  the  pathway  be 

Upon  the  road  to  Arcady. 

But  how  shall  I  do  who  cannot  sing  ?  25 

I  was  wont  to  sing,  once  on  a  time,  — 

There  is  never  an  echo  now  to  ring 

Remembrance  back  to  the  trick  of  rhyme. 

'Tis  strange  you  cannot  sing  (quoth  he),  — 
The  folk  all  sing  in  Arcady.  30 

LONG'S  AM.  POEMS  —  20 


LATER   PERIOD 

But  how  may  he  find  Arcady 
Who  hath  nor  youth  nor  melody  ? 

What,  know  you  not,  old  man  (quoth  he),  — 

Your  hair  is  white,  your  face  is  wise,  — 

That  Love  must  kiss  that  MortaVs  eyes  5 

Who  hopes  to  see  fair  Arcady  ? 
No  gold  can  buy  you  entrance  there; 
But  beggared  Love  may  all  go  bare  — 
No  wisdom  won  with  weariness ; 

But  Love  goes  in  with  Folly  V  dress  —  10 

No  fame  that  wit  could  ever  win  ; 
But  only  Love  may  lead  Love  in 

To  Arcady,  to  Arcady. 

Ah,  woe  is  me,  through  all  my  days 

Wisdom  and  wealth  I  both  have  got,  15 

And  fame  and  name,  and  great  men's  praise  ; 

But  Love,  ah  Love  !  I  have  it  not. 
There  was  a  time,  when  life  was  new  — 

But  far  away,  and  half  forgot  — 
I  only  know  her  eyes  were  blue  ;  20 

But  Love  —  I  fear  I  knew  it  not. 
We  did  not  wed,  for  lack  of  gold, 
And  she  is  dead,  and  I  am  old. 
All  things  have  come  since  then  to  me, 
Save  Love,  ah  Love  !  and  Arcady.  25 

Ah,  then  I  fear  we  part  (quoth  he), — 
My  way's  for  Love  and  Arcady. 

But  you,  you  fare  alone,  like  me  ; 

The  gray  is  likewise  in  your  hair. 

What  love  have  you  to  lead  you  there,  30 

To  Arcady,  to  Arcady  ? 


BUNNER  307 

Ah,  no,  not  lonely  do  I  fare  ; 

My  true  companion's  Memory. 
With  Love  he  fills  the  Springtime  air ; 

With  Love  he  clothes  the  Winter  tree. 
Oh,  past  this  poor  horizon's  bound  5 

My  song  goes  straight  to  one  who  stands,  — 
Her  face  all  gladdening  at  the  sound, — 

To  lead  me  to  the  Spring-green  lands, 
To  wander  with  enlacing  hands. 

The  songs  within  my  breast  that  stir  10 

Are  all  of  her,  are  all  of  her. 
My  maid  is  dead  long  years  (quoth  he),  — • 
She  waits  for  me  in  Arcady. 

Oh,  yorfs  the  way  to  Arcady, 

To  Arcady,  to  Arcady  ;  15 

Oh,  y on's  the  way  to  Arcady, 

Where  all  the  leaves  are  merry. 

THE   CHAPERON1 

I  TAKE  my  chaperon  to  the  play  — 
She  thinks  she's  taking  me. 

And  the  gilded  youth  who  owns  the  box,  20 

A  proud  young  man  is  he ; 

But  how  would  his  young  heart  be  hurt 
If  he  could  only  know 
That  not  for  his  sweet  sake  I  go 
Nor  yet  to  see  the  trifling  show ;  25 

But  to  see  my  chaperon  flirt. 

Her  eyes  beneath  her  snowy  hair 
They  sparkle  young  as  mine  ; 

1  From  Poems  of  H.  C.  Bnnner.     Copyright,  1884,  1892,  1896,  1899,  by  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons. 


308  LATER   PERIOD 

There's  scarce  a  wrinkle  in  her  hand 

So  delicate  and  fine. 
And  when  my  chaperon  is  seen, 

They  come  from  everywhere  — 

The  dear  old  boys  with  silvery  hair,  5 

With  old-time  grace  and  old-time  air, 
To  greet  their  old-time  queen. 

They  bow  as  my  young  Midas  here 
Will  never  learn  to  bow 

(The  dancing  masters  do  not  teach  10 

That  gracious  reverence  now)  ; 

\Vith  voices  quavering  just  a  bit, 

They  play  their  old  parts  through, 

They  talk  of  folk  who  used  to  woo, 

Of  hearts  that  broke  in  'fifty-two —  15 

Now  none  the  worse  for  it. 

And  as  those  aged  crickets  chirp 
I  watch  my  chaperon's  face, 

And  see  the  dear  old  features  take 

A  new  and  tender  grace  ;  20 

And  in  her  happy  eyes  I  see 

Her  youth  awakening  bright, 
With  all  its  hope,  desire,  delight  — 
Ah,  me  !     I  wish  that  I  were  quite 

As  young  —  as  young  as  she  1  25 

FRANK    DEMPSTER   SHERMAN 

1860- 

ONE  of  the  best-known  contributors  of  verse  to  magazines  to-day  is 
Mr.  Sherman.  He  was  born  at  Peekskill,  New  York,  and  was  graduated 
from  Columbia,  where  he  holds  the  position  of  professor  of  architec 
ture.  He  is  the  author  of  two  or  three  volumes  of  verse. 


SHERMAN  309 

ON    A   GREEK   VASE 

DIVINELY  shapen  cup,  thy  lip 

Unto  me  seemeth  thus  to  speak : 
"  Behold  in  me  the  workmanship, 

The  grace  and  cunning  of  a  Greek! 

"Long  ages  since  he  mixed  the  clay,  5 

Whose  sense  of  symmetry  was  such, 
The  labor  of  a  single  day, 

Immortal  grew  beneath  his  touch. 

"  For  dreaming  while  his  ringers  went 

Around  this  slender  neck  of  mine,  10 

The  form  of  her  he  loved  was  blent 

With  every  matchless  curve  and  line, 

"  Her  loveliness  to  me  he  gave 

Who  gave  unto  herself  his  heart, 
That  love  and  beauty  from  the  grave  15 

Might  rise  and  live  again  in  art." 

And  hearing  from  thy  lips  this  tale 

Of  love  and  skill,  of  art  and  grace, 
Thou  seem'st  to  me  no  more  the  frail 

Memento  of  an  older  race  :  20 

But  in  thy  form  divinely  wrought 

And  figured  o'er  with  fret  and  scroll, 
I  dream,  by  happy  chance  was  caught, 

And  dwelleth  now,  that  maiden's  soul. 

ON    SOME   BUTTERCUPS 

A  LITTLE  way  below  her  chin,  25 

Caught  in  her  bosom's  snowy  hem, 
Some  buttercups  are  fastened  in,  — 

Ah,  how  I  envy  them  ! 


310  LATER   PERIOD 

They  do  not  miss  their  meadow  place, 
Nor  are  they  conscious  that  their  skies 

Are  not  the  heavens,  but  her  face, 
Her  hair,  and  mild  blue  eyes. 

There,  in  the  downy  meshes  pinned, 
Such  sweet  illusions  haunt  their  rest ; 

They  think  her  breath  the  fragrant  wind, 
And  tremble  on  her  breast ; 

As  if,  close  to  her  heart,  they  heard 
A  captive  secret  slip  its  cell, 

And  with  desire  were  sudden  stirred 
To  find  a  voice  and  tell ! 


LOUISE    IMOGEN    GUINEY 

1861- 

Miss  GUINEY  was  born  at  Boston.  Most  of  her  life  has  been  spent 
in  and  near  Boston,  where  she  has  been  busily  occupied  in  literary 
work.  She  is  the  author  of  several  volumes  of  essays  and  poems. 

THE   WILD    RIDE 

I  HEAR  in  my  heart,  I  hear  in  its  ominous  pulses, 
All  day,  on  the  road,  the  hoofs  of  invisible  horses; 
All  night,  from  their  stalls,  the  importunate  tramping  and  neighing. 

Let  cowards  and  laggards  fall  back  !  but  alert  to  the  saddle,  16 
Straight,  grim,  and  abreast,  go  the  weatherworn,  galloping  legion, 
With  a  stirrup-cup  each  to  the  lily  of  women  that  loves  him. 

The  trail  is  through  dolor  and  dread,  over  crags  and  morasses; 
There  are  shapes  by  the  way,  there  are  things  that  appal   or 

entice  us :  20 

What  odds  ?     We  are  knights,  and  our  souls  are  but  bent  on  the 

riding. 


HOVEY  3  I  I 

I  hear  in  my  heart,  I  hear  in  its  ominous  pulses, 

All  day,  on  the  road,  the  hoofs  of  invisible  horses  ; 

All  night,  from  their  stalls,  the  importunate  tramping  and  neighing. 

We  spur  to  a  land  of  no  name,  outfacing  the  stormwind ; 

We  leap  to  the  infinite  dark,  like  the  sparks  from  the  anvil.        5 

Thou  leadest,  O  God  !    All's  well  with  Thy  troopers  that  follow. 


RICHARD    HOVEY 

1864-1900 

FEW  poets  of  the  younger  generation  gave  such  promise  as  Hovey, 
and  at  the  time  of  his  death  the  outlook  seemed  brightest.  He  was 
born  at  Normal,  Indiana,  and  died  in  New  York  city.  He  was  a 
graduate  of  Dartmouth  College,  and  later  studied  theology,  but  finally 
turned  to  literature.  He  saw  life  on  many  sides  in  New  York,  as 
journalist,  actor,  dramatist,  and  lecturer  on  English  literature.  His 
best-known  volume  of  poems  is  Songs  from  Vagabondia. 

THE   CALL   OF   THE   BUGLES 

BUGLES ! 

And  the  Great  Nation  thrills  and  leaps  to  arms ! 

Prompt,  unconstrained,  immediate, 

Without  misgiving  and  without  debate,  10 

Too  calm,  too  strong  for  fury  or  alarms, 

The  people  blossoms  armies  and  puts  forth 

The  splendid  summer  of  its  noiseless  might ; 

For  the  old  sap  of  fight 

Mounts  up  in  South  and  North,  15 

The  thrill 

That  tingled  in  our  veins  at  Bunker  Hill 

And  brought  to  bloom  July  of  'Seventy-Six  1 

Pine  and  palmetto  mix 

With  the  sequoia  of  the  giant  West  20 


312  LATER   PERIOD 

Their  ready  banners  and  the  hosts  of  war, 

Near  and  far, 

Sudden  as  dawn, 

Innumerable  as  forests,  hear  the  call 

Of  the  bugles,  r, 

The  battle  birds ! 

For  not  alone  the  brave,  the  fortunate, 

Who  first  of  all 

Have  put  their  knapsacks  on  — 

They  are  the  valiant  vanguard  of  the  rest  1  —  10 

Not  they  alone,  but  all  our  millions  wait, 

Hand  on  sword, 

For  the  word 

That  bids  them  bid  the  nations  know  us  sons  of  Fate. 

Bugles!  I5 

And  in  my  heart  a  cry, 
—  Like  a  dim  echo  far  and  mournfully 
Blown  back  to  answer  them  from  yesterday ! 
A  soldier's  burial ! 

November  hillsides  and  the  falling  leaves  20 

.    Where  the  Potomac  broadens  to  the  tide  — 
The  crisp  autumnal  silence  and  the  gray 
(As  of  a  solemn  ritual 
Whose  congregation  glories  as  it  grieves, 
Widowed  but  still  a  bride)  —  25 

The  long  hills  sloping  to  the  wave, 
And  the  lone  bugler  standing  by  the  grave  1 

Taps! 

The  lonely  call  over  the  lonely  woodlands  — 

Rising  like  the  soaring  of  wings,  30 

Like  the  flight  of  an  eagle  — 

Taps! 

They  sound  forever  in  my  heart. 


HOVEY  313 

From  farther  still, 

The  echoes  —  still  the  echoes  ! 

The  bugles  of  the  dead 

Blowing  from  spectral  ranks  an  answering  cry ! 

The  ghostly  roll  of  immaterial  drums,  5 

Beating  reveille  in  the  camps  of  dream, 

As  from  far  meadows  comes, 

Over  the  pathless  hill, 

The  irremeable  stream. 

I  hear  the  tread  J0 

Of  the  great  armies  of  the  Past  go  by ; 

I  hear, 

Across  the  wide  sea  wash  of  years  between, 

Concord  and  Valley  Forge  shout  back  from  the  unseen, 

And  Vicksburg  give  a  cheer.  15 

Our  cheer  goes  back  to  them,  the  valiant  dead! 

Laurels  and  roses  on  their  graves  to-day, 

Lilies  and  laurels  over  them  we  lay, 

And  violets  o'er  each  unforgotten  head. 

Their  honor  still  with  the  returning  May  20 

Puts  on  its  springtime  in  our  memories, 

Nor  till  the  last  American  with  them  lies 

Shall  the  young  year  forget  to  strew  their  bed. 

Peace  to  their  ashes,  sleep  and  honored  rest ! 

But  we  —  awake  !  25 

Ours  to  remember  them  with  deeds  like  theirs ! 

From  sea  to  sea  the  insistent  bugle  blares, 

The  drums  will  not  be  still  for  any  sake  ; 

And  as  an  eagle  rears  his  crest, 

Defiant,  from  some  tall  pine  of  the  North,  30 

And  spreads  his  wings  to  fly, 

The  banners  of  America  go  forth 

Against  the  clarion  sky. 

Veteran  and  volunteer. 


314  LATER   PERIOD 

They  who  were  comrades  of  that  shadow  host, 

And  the  young  brood  whose  veins  renew  the  fires 

That  burned  in  their  great  sires, 

Alike  we  hear 

The  summons  sounding  clear 

From  coast  to  coast,  — 

The  cry  of  the  bugles, 

The  battle  birds ! 

#*=*=*##:*# 

Bugles  ! 

The  imperious  bugles  ! 

Still  their  call 

Soars  like  an  exaltation  to  the  sky. 

They  call  on  men  to  fall, 

To  die,- 

Remembered  or  forgotten,  but  a  part 

Of  the  great  beating  of  the  Nation's  heart  1 

A  call  to  sacrifice  1 

A  call  to  victory  ! 

Hark,  in  the  Empyrean 

The  battle  birds ! 

The  bugles  ! 


UNMANIFEST    DESTINY 

To  what  new  fates,  my  country,  far 

And  unforeseen  of  foe  or  friend, 
Beneath  what  unexpected  star, 

Compelled  to  what  unchosen  end,  25 

Across  the  sea  that  knows  no  beach 

The  Admiral  of  Nations  guides 
Thy  blind  obedient  keels  to  reach 

The  harbor  where  thy  future  rides  ! 


HOVEY  3  I  5 

The  guns  that  spoke  at  Lexington 

Knew  not  that  God  was  planning  then 

The  trumpet  word  of  Jefferson 
To  bugle  forth  the  rights  of  men. 

To  them  that  wept  and  cursed  Bull  Run,  5 

What  was  it  but  despair  and  shame  ? 

Who  saw  behind  the  cloud  the  sun  ? 
Who  knew  that  God  was  in  the  flame  ? 

Had  not  defeat  upon  defeat, 

Disaster  on  disaster  come,  10 

The  slave's  emancipated  feet 

Had  never  marched  behind  the  drum. 

There  is  a  Hand  that  bends  our  deeds 
To  mightier  issues  than  we  planned, 

Each  son  that  triumphs,  each  that  bleeds,  15 

My  country,  serves  Its  dark  command. 

I  do  not  know  beneath  what  sky 

Nor  on  what  seas  shall  be  thy  fate  ; 
I  only  know  it  shall  be  high, 

I  only  know  it  shall  be  great.  20 

—July,  1898. 

LOVE   IN   THE  WINDS 

WHEN  I  am  standing  on  a  mountain  crest, 

Or  hold  the  tiller  in  the  dashing  spray, 

My  love  of  you  leaps  foaming  in  my  breast, 

Shouts  with  the  winds  and  sweeps  to  their  foray ; 

My  heart  bounds  with  the  horses  of  the  sea,  25 

And  plunges  in  the  wild  ride  of  the  night, 

Flaunts  in  the  teeth  of  tempest  the  large  glee 


LATER    PERIOD 

That  rides  out  Fate  and  welcomes  gods  to  fight. 
Ho,  love,  I  laugh  aloud  for  love  of  you, 

Glad  that  our  love  is  fellow  to  rough  weather, 

No  fretful  orchid  hothoused  from  the  dew, 
But  hale  and  hardy  as  the  highland  heather, 
Rejoicing  in  the  wind  that  stings  and  thrills, 
Comrade  of  ocean,  playmate  of  the  hills. 


WILLIAM    VAUGHN    MOODY 

1869- 

MR.  MOODY  was  born  at  Spencer,  Indiana,  and  was  graduated  in 
1893  from  Harvard,  where  for  a  time  he  was  an  assistant  in  English. 
Later  he  became  a  member  of  the  English  department  at  the  University 
of  Chicago.  While  in  college  the  unusual  excellence  of  his  verse  was 
a  matter  of  comment,  and  he  has  more  than  fulfilled  his  early  promise. 
He  has  already  published  two  volumes  of  poetry  of  marked  power,  and 
much  is  expected  of  him  in  the  future. 

ROBERT   GOULD    SHAW 

(FROM    "AN   ODE   IN   TIME  OF   HESITATION") 

THE  wars  we  wage 

Are  noble,  and  our  battles  still  are  won 

By  justice  for  us,  ere  we  lift  the  gage.  I0 

We  have  not  sold  our  loftiest  heritage. 

The  proud  republic  hath  not  stooped  to  cheat 

And  scramble  in  the  market  place  of  war ; 

Her  forehead  weareth  yet  its  solemn  star. 

Here  is  her  witness  :  this,  her  perfect  son,  i5 

This  delicate  and  proud  New  England  soul 

Who  leads  despised  men,  with  just-unshackled  feet, 

Up  the  large  ways  where  death  and  glory  meet, 

To  show  all  peoples  that  our  shame  is  done, 

That  once  more  we  are  clean  and  spirit-whole.  20 


MOODY  317 

Crouched  in  the  sea  fog  on  the  moaning  sand 

All  night  he  lay,  speaking  some  simple  word 

From  hour  to  hour  to  the  slow  minds  that  heard, 

Holding  each  poor  life  gently  in  his  hand 

And  breathing  on  the  base  rejected  clay  5 

Till  each  dark  face  shone  mystical  and  grand 

Against  the  breaking  day  ; 

And  lo,  the  shard  the  potter  cast  away 

Was  grown  a  fiery  chalice  crystal-fine, 

Fulfilled  of  the  divine  ™ 

Great  wine  of  battle  wrath  by  God's  ring-finger  stirred. 

Then  upward,  where  the  shadowy  bastion  loomed 

Huge  on  the  mountain  in  the  wet  sea  light, 

Whence  now,  and  now,  infernal  flowerage  bloomed, 

Bloomed,  burst,  and  scattered  down  its  deadly  seed, —  15 

They  swept,  and  died  like  freemen  on  the  height, 

Like  freemen,  and  like  men  of  noble  breed ; 

And  when  the  battle  fell  away  at  night 

By  hasty  and  contemptuous  hands  were  thrust 

Obscurely  in  a  common  grave  with  him  20 

The  fair-haired  keeper  of  their  love  and  trust 

Now  limb  doth  mingle  with  dissolved  limb 

In  nature's  busy  old  democracy 

To  flush  the  mountain  laurel  when  she  blows 

Sweet  by  the  southern  sea,  25 

And  heart  with  crumbled  heart  climbs  in  the  rose :  — 

The  untaught  hearts  with  the  high  heart  that  knew 

This  mountain  fortress  for  no  earthly  hold 

Of  temporal  quarrel,  but  the  bastion  old 

Of  spiritual  wrong,  3° 

Built  by  an  unjust  nation  sheer  and  strong, 

Expugnable  but  by  a  nation's  rue 

And  bowing  down  before  that  equal  shrine 

By  all  men  held  divine, 

Whereof  his  band  and  he  were  the  most  holy  sign.          35 


3*8  LATER   PERIOD 

WE   ARE   OUR    FATHERS'    SONS 

(FROM   "AN   ODE   IN   TIME  OF   HESITATION") 

WE  are  our  fathers'  sons  :  let  those  who  lead  us  know  ! 

'Tvvas  only  yesterday  sick  Cuba's  cry 

Came  up  the  tropic  wind,  "  Now  help  us,  for  we  die  !  " 

Then  Alabama  heard, 

And  rising,  pale,  to  Maine  and  Idaho  5 

Shouted  a  burning  word  ; 

Proud  state  with  proud  impassioned  state  conferred, 

And  at  the  lifting  of  a  hand  sprang  forth, 

East,  west,  and  south,  and  north, 

Beautiful  armies.     Oh,  by  the  sweet  blood  and  young        J0 

Shed  on  the  awful  hill  slope  at  San  Juan, 

By  the  unforgotten  names  of  eager  boys 

Who  might  have  tasted  girls'  love  and  been  stung 

With  the  old  mystic  joys 

And  starry  griefs,  now  the  spring  nights  come  on,  i5 

But  that  the  heart  of  youth  is  generous,  — 

We  charge  you,  ye  who  lead  us, 

Breathe  on  their  chivalry  no  hint  of  stain  ! 

Turn  not  their  new-world  victories  to  gain  ! 

One  least  leaf  plucked  for  chaffer  from  the  bays  20 

Of  their  dear  praise, 

One  jot  of  their  pure  conquest  put  to  hire, 

The  implacable  republic  will  require  ; 

With  clamor,  in  the  glare  and  gaze  of  noon, 

Or  subtly,  coming  as  a  thief  at  night,  25 

But  surely,  very  surely,  slow  or  soon 

That  insult  deep  we  deeply  will  requite. 

Tempt  not  our  weakness,  our  cupidity  ! 

For  save  we  let  the  island  men  go  free, 

Those  baffled  and  dislaureled  ghosts  3o 

Will  curse  us  from  the  lamentable  coasts 

Where  walk  the  frustrate  dead 


MOODY  319 

The  cup  of  trembling  shall  be  drained  quite, 

Eaten  the  sour  bread  of  astonishment, 

With  ashes  of  the  hearth  shall  be  made  white 

Our  hair,  and  wailing  shall  be  in  the  tent : 

Then  on  your  guiltier  head  5 

Shall  our  intolerable  self-disdain 

Wreak  suddenly  its  anger  and  its  pain  ; 

For  manifest  in  that  disastrous  light 

We  shall  discern  the  right 

And  do  it,  tardily.  —  O  ye  who  lead,  10 

Take  heed  ! 

Blindness  we  may  forgive,  but  baseness  we  will  smite. 

ON    A   SOLDIER   FALLEN    IN    THE    PHILIPPINES 

STREETS  of  the  roaring  town, 

Hush  for  him,  hush,  be  still ! 

He  comes,  who  was  stricken  down  15 

Doing  the  word  of  our  will. 

Hush  !     Let  him  have  his  state, 

Give  him  his  soldier's  crown. 

The  grists  of  trade  can  wait 

Their  grinding  at  the  mill,  20 

But  he  cannot  wait  for  his  honor,  now  the  trumpet  has  blown. 
Wreathe  pride  now  for  his  granite  brow,  lay  love  on  his  breast 
of  stone. 

Toll !     Let  the  great  bells  toll 

Till  the  clashing  air  is  dim. 

Did  we  wrong  this  parted  soul  ?  25 

We  will  make  it  up  to  him. 

Toll !     Let  him  never  guess 

What  work  we  set  him  to. 

Laurel,  laurel,  yes ; 

He  did  what  we  bade  him  do.  3° 


320  LATER   PERIOD 

Praise,  and  never  a  whispered  hint  but  the  fight  he  fought  was 

good  ; 
Never  a  word  that  the  blood  on  his  sword  was  his  country's  own 

heart's  blood. 

A  flag  for  the  soldier's  bier 

Who  dies  that  his  land  may  live ; 

O,  banners,  banners  here,  5 

That  he  doubt  not  nor  misgive ! 

That  he  heed  not  from  the  tomb 

The  evil  days  draw  near 

When  the  nation,  robed  in  gloom, 

With  its  faithless  past  shall  strive.  I0 

Let  him  never  dream  that  his  bullet's  scream  went  wide  of  its 

island  mark, 

Home  to  the  heart  of  his  darling  land  where  she  stumbled  and 
sinned  in  the  dark. 


CAROLINE    DUER 

Miss  DUER  was  born  in  New  York  city,  where  she  now  resides.  She 
is  the  author,  with  her  sister,  of  a  volume  of  poems  of  unusual  grace 
and  vigor. 

AN    INTERNATIONAL   EPISODE 

(MARCH    15,   1889) 

WE  were  ordered  to  Samoa  from  the  coast  of  Panama, 

And  for  two  long  months  we  sailed  the  unequal  sea, 
Till  we  made  the  horseshoe  harbor  with  its  curving  coral  bar, 

Smelt  the  good  green  smell  of  grass  and  shrub  and  tree.    16 
We  had  barely  room  for  swinging  with  the  tide  — 

There  were  many  of  us  crowded  in  the  bay : 
Three  Germans,  and  the  English  ship,  beside 

Our  three  —  and  from  the  Trenton  where  she  lay,  20 


DUER  321 

Through  the  sunset  calms  and  after, 
We  could  hear  the  shrill,  sweet  laughter 

Of  the  children's  voices  on  the  shore  at  play. 

We  all  knew  a  storm  was  coming,  but,  dear  God  !  no  man  could 
dream 

Of  the  furious  hell-horrors  of  that  day :  5 

Through  the  roar  of  winds  and  waters  we  could  hear  wild  voices 
scream  — 

See  the  rocking  masts  reel  by  us  through  the  spray. 
In  the  gale  we  drove  and  drifted  helplessly, 

With  our  rudder  gone,  our  engine  fires  drowned, 
And  none  might  hope  another  hour  to  see  ;  10 

For  all  the  air  was  desperate  with  the  sound 
Of  the  brave  ships  rent  asunder  — 
Of  the  shrieking  souls  sucked  under, 

'Neath  the  waves,  where  many  a  good  man's  grave  was  found. 

About  noon,  upon  our  quarter,  from  the  deeper  gloom  afar,      15 

Came  the  English  man-of-war  Calliope. 

"  We  have  lost  our  anchors,  comrades,  and,  though  small   the 
chances  are, 

We  must  steer  for  safety  and  the  open  sea." 
Then  we  climbed  aloft  to  cheer  her  as  she  passed 

Through  the  tempest  and  the  blackness  and  the  foam  :          20 
"  Now,  God  speed  you,  though  the  shout  should  be  our  last, 

Through  the  channel  where  the  maddened  breakers  comb, 
Through  the  wild  sea's  hill  and  hollow, 
On  the  path  we  cannot  follow, 

To  your  women  and  your  children  and  your  home."  25 

Oh  !    remember  it,  good  brothers.     We  two  people  speak  one 

tongue, 
And  your  native  land  was  mother  to  our  land  ; 

LONG'S  AM.  POEMS—  21 


322  LATER    PERIOD 

But  the  head,  perhaps,  is  hasty  when  the  nation's  heart  is  young, 

And  we  prate  of  things  we  do  not  understand. 
But  the  day  when  we  stood  face  to  face  with  death, 

(Upon  whose  face  few  men  may  look  and  tell), 
As  long  as  you  could  hear,  or  we  had  breath,  5 

Four  hundred  voices  cheered  you  out  of  hell  1 
By  the  will  of  that  stern  chorus, 
By  the  motherland  which  bore  us, 

Judge  if  we  do  not  love  each  other  well. 


GUY   WETMORE   CARRYL 

1873-1904 

THIS  writer,  a  man  of  many  gifts,  was  born  in  New  York  city,  and 
was  educated  at  Columbia.  He  chose  literature  as  a  profession,  and 
wrote  much  for  the  periodicals.  After  various  editorial  labors,  he  be 
came  the  representative  at  Paris  of  a  large  New  York  publishing  house. 

WHEN    THE   GREAT   GRAY    SHIPS    COME   IN 

To  eastward  ringing,  to  westward  winging,  o'er  mapless  miles 

of  sea,  10 

On  winds  and  tides  the  gospel  rides  that  the  furthermost  isles 

are  free, 
And  the  furthermost  isles  make  answer,  harbor,  and  height,  and 

hill, 
Breaker  and  beach  cry  each  to  each,  "  Tis  the   Mother  who 

calls  !     Be  still !  " 

Mother  !  new-found,  beloved,  and  strong  to  hold  from  harm, 
Stretching  to  these  across  the  seas  the  shield  of  her  sovereign 

arm,  15 

Who    summoned    the   guns  of   her  sailor  sons,  who  bade  her 

navies  roam, 
Who  calls  again  to  the  leagues  of  main,  and  who  calls  them  this 

time  home  ! 


CARRYL  323 

And  the  great  gray  ships  are  silent,  and  the  weary  watchers  rest, 
The   black   cloud   dies  in  the  August  skies,  and  deep  in   the 

golden  west 

Invisible  hands  are  limning  a  glory  of  crimson  bars, 
And  far  above  is  the  wonder  of  a  myriad  wakened  stars ! 
Peace  !     As  the  tidings  silence  the  strenuous  cannonade,  5 

Peace  at  last !  is  the  bugle  blast  the  length  of  the  long  blockade, 
And  eyes  of  vigil  weary  are  lit  with  the  glad  release, 
From  ship  to  ship  and  from  lip  to  lip  it  is  "  Peace  !     Thank 

God  for  peace." 

Ah,  in  the  sweet  hereafter  Columbia  still  shall  show 

The  sons  of  these  who  swept  the  seas  how  she  bade  them  rise 

and  go,  —  10 

How,  when  the  stirring  summons  smote  on  her  children's  ear, 
South  and   North  at  the   call  stood  forth,  and  the  whole  land 

answered,  "  Here  !  " 
For  the  soul  of  the  soldier's  story  and  the  heart  of  the  sailor's 

song 
Are  all  of  those  who  meet  their  foes  as  right  should  meet  with 

wrong, 
Who  fight  their  guns  till  the  foeman  runs,  and  then,  on   the 

decks  they  trod,  15 

Brave   faces   raise,   and   give  the  praise  to  the  grace  of  their 

country's  God ! 

Yes,  it  is  good  to  battle,  and  good  to  be  strong  and  free, 
To  carry  the  hearts  of  the  people  to  the  uttermost  ends  of  sea, 
To  see  the  day  steal  up  the  bay  where  the  enemy  lies  in  wait, 
To  run  your  ship  to  the  harbor's  lip  and  sink  her  across  the 

strait :  —  20 

But  better  the  golden  evening  when  the  ships  round  heads  for 

home,. 
And  the  long  gray  miles  slip  swiftly  past  in  a  swirl  of  seething 

foam, 


324  LATER   PERIOD 

And  the  people  wait  at  the  haven's  gate  to  greet  the  men  who 

win ! 
Thank  God  for  peace  !     Thank  God  for  peace,  when  the  great 

gray  ships  come  in  ! 

—  New  York  Harbor,  August  20,  sSyS. 

JOSEPH    B.   GILDER 

1858- 

MR.  GILDER  was  born  at  Flushing,  New  York.  He  entered  the  Naval 
Academy  at  Annapolis,  but  resigned  before  finishing  the  course,  and 
engaged  in  journalism.  He  and  his  sister,  Miss  Jeannette  L.  Gilder, 
are  the  editors  of  the  Critic.  Mr.  Richard  Watson  Gilder,  editor  of 
the  Century  Magazine,  is  his  brother. 

THE   PARTING   OF   THE   WAYS 

UNTRAMMELED  Giant  of  the  West, 
With  all  of  Nature's  gifts  endowed, 

With  all  of  Heaven's  mercies  blessed,  5 

Nor  of  thy  power  unduly  proud  — 

Peerless  in  courage,  force,  and  skill, 

And  godlike  in  thy  strength  of  will,  — 

Before  thy  feet  the  ways  divide : 

One  path  leads  up  to  heights  sublime ;  10 

Downward  the  other  slopes,  where  bide 

The  refuse  and  the  wrecks  of  Time. 
Choose  then,  nor  falter  at  the  start, 
O  choose  the  nobler  path  and  part ! 

Be  thou  the  guardian  of  the  weak,  15 

Of  the  unfriended,  thou  the  friend  ; 

No  guerdon  for  thy  valor  seek, 
No  end  beyond  the  avowed  end. 

Wouldst  thou  thy  godlike  power  preserve, 

Be  godlike  in  the  will  to  serve  1  20 


NOTES 

EARLY   PERIOD 

THE  earliest  attempts  at  literary  production  by  the  first  American  settlers 
were  crude  in  manner  and  uninteresting  in  matter.  There  were,  it  is  true, 
scholars  among  them,  and  there  were  men  and  women  of  refinement,  feeling, 
and  imagination.  They  had  left  England,  too,  when  Shakespeare  was  at  the 
top  of  his  fame,  and  when  poetry  was  the  rule  rather  than  the  exception 
among  men  of  wit.  But  the  conditions  of  life  in  the  western  world  were  too 
exacting  to  admit  of  literary  expression.  Men  were  too  busy  with  the  ax, 
the  plow,  and  the  gun  to  take  time  to  record  the  workings  of  their  minds 
and  hearts.  Puritan  theological  ideas,  furthermore,  looked  askance  at  all 
forms  of  art.  Literary  expression  had  to  wait,  therefore,  until  the  foundations 
of  the  Republic  were  firmly  laid.  That  there  was  intellectual  activity  during 
the  colonial  period  is  clearly  shown  by  the  output  of  sermons  and  theological 
treatises  by  such  men  as  the  Mathers,  the  Cottons,  and  Jonathan  Edwards. 
But  the  poetic  muse  lagged.  The  first  book  published  in  America  was  a  col 
lection  of  hymns  of  New  England  divines  now  known  as  the  Bay  Psalm 
Book.  Its  verses  were  so  crude  and  its  rhymes  so  sprawling  that  some  one 
has  said  that  they  "  seem  to  have  been  hammered  out  on  an  anvil,  by  blows 
from  a  blacksmith's  sledge."  A  few  years  later,  another  volume  of  American 
verse  by  Mistress  Anne  Bradstreet  was  published  in  London.  These  poems 
do  not  rise  above  mediocrity,  nor  do  they  smack  of  American  soil.  She  could 
see  little  difference  between  the  skies  and  flowers  and  birds  of  New  England 
and  those  of  the  old  country.  Indeed,  it  was  William  Cullen  Bryant  who 
first  discovered  that  American  song  birds  were  not  English  nightingales,  and 
that  the  picturesque  scenery  of  New  England  was  different  from  the  velvety 
lawns  of  old  England. 

This  dependence  upon  England  was  weakened  by  the  Revolution,  although 
the  influence  of  England  continued  to  be  felt,  and  is  felt  to-day,  but  with 
diminishing  force.  Imitation  of  English  literary  models,  both  in  form  and 
in  spirit,  was,  of  course,  perfectly  natural.  The  early  colonists  were,  in  the 
main,  Englishmen,  and  they  brought  with  them  English  traditions  and  ways  of 
thought.  With  the  establishment  of  the  Republic,  however,  there  sprang  up 
the  feeling  of  nationality  which  speedily  made  its  way  into  letters.  The  first 

325 


326  NOTES 

poet  of  note  to  give  voice  to  this  new  consciousness  was  Philip  Freneau.  In 
his  verse  the  red  man  appears  for  the  first  time  as  a  romantic  figure  ;  in  it  we 
smell  the  fragrance  of  the  wild  honeysuckle  instead  of  the  English  hawthorn  ; 
and  in  his  patriotic  verse  we  hear  both  the  clash  of  arms  and  lament  for  the 
patriotic  dead. 

What  we  may  call  the  Early  Period  of  American  letters,  then,  began  with 
Philip  Freneau  ;  it  ended  with  Thomas  Dunn  English.  It  was  frequently 
marked  both  by  extravagant  though  sincere  patriotism  and  by  flabby  sentiment. 
Sentiment  is  often  pushed  so  far  that  it  degenerates  into  mere  sentimentality. 
As  to  literary  form  also,  some  of  the  poems  given  in  this  collection  would 
suffer  if  examined  too  closely,  but  they  have  found  their  way  to  the  hearts  of 
the  people,  and  seem  likely  to  stay  there  for  a  very  long  time.  A  few  of  the 
poets  of  this  period — notably  Willis  and  English  —  were  contemporaries  of 
the  greater  names  which  fall  into  the  next  period  ;  but  the  spirit  and  temper 
of  their  work  places  them  beyond  doubt  among  the  writers  of  an  earlier  time. 
They  made  an  effective  appeal  to  this  earlier  generation,  but  their  facile 
sentimentalism,  obscured  by  poets  of  greater  power  in  New  England,  was 
finally  withered  by  the  heat  of  the  Civil  War. 

PHILIP   FRENEAU 

PAGE  16.  The  Indian  Burying  Ground.  In  this  poem  the  red  man  is 
described  as  being  buried  in  an  alert,  watchful,  sitting  posture  instead  of 
being  stretched  out  at  full  length,  as  if  in  sleep.  Here  is  an  appeal  to  the 
imagination  which  goes  straight  home;  and  it  is  this  imaginative  appeal, 
expressed  directly  and  simply  and  freshly,  that  marks  Freneau  as  the  first 
American  poet  of  real  merit.  One  line  of  this  poem,  taken  from  the  stanza 
next  to  the  last, 

The  hunter  and  the  deer  —  a  shade, 

was  stolen  by  the  English  poet  Campbell.  Sir  Walter  Scott  also  borrowed 
a  line  from  Freneau,  and  Professor  Tyler  says  that  an  English  lady  took 
bodily  one  of  Freneau's  poems  and  published  it  as  her  own.  Such  marks 
of  attention  are,  of  course,  flattering  to  the  early  American  poet. 

17.  The  Wild  Honeysuckle.  It  is  a  genuine  pleasure  to  find  native  wild 
flowers  appearing  in  American  verse,  even  if  they  are  used  only  to  tell  us  that 
all  charms  decay.  Freneau's  eyes  were  open  to  the  beauties  of  nature,  but 
the  strongest  feeling  that  they  aroused  in  him  was  one  of  gentle  melancholy. 
No  matter  how  joyously  one  of  his  poems  on  nature  may  begin,  it  is  apt  to 
end  in  tears  and  in  sight  of  a  grave.  Joyous  delight  in  nature  appears  first 
rather  feebly  in  Bryant  and  breaks  out  rapturously  in  Emerson,  both  of 
whom  show  clearly  the  influence  of  the  English  poet  Wordsworth.  But 


NOTES  327 

Freneau  and  the  other  poets  of  the  Early  Period  were  still  under  the  spell 
of  Gray's  Elegy  and  Young's  Night  Thoughts. 

1 8.  Eutaw  Springs.  The  battle  of  Eutaw  Springs,  one  of  the  last 
battles  of  the  Revolution,  was  fought  in  1781  in  lower  South  Carolina.  It 
was  a  hotly  contested  fight,  both  sides  claiming  the  victory.  Freneau's  poem 
rises  almost  to  nobleness  in  its  simplicity  and  restraint.  The  best  line  is  the 
one  in  which  he  says  of  the  American  soldiers :  — 

They  took  the  spear  —  but  left  the  shield. 

PAGE  19:  lines  i,  2.  General  Nathanael  Greene  was  the  American  com 
mander  in  this  battle.  He  probably  ranks  next  to  Washington  among  the 
military  leaders  of  the  Revolution.  This  couplet  may,  at  first  glance,  seem 
obscure.  The  meaning  is,  that  the  American  soldiers,  led  by  the  standards 
of  Greene,  forced  the  British  to  retreat. 

19 :  5.  Parthians.  The  Parthians  were  a  wild  tribe  who  lived  east  of 
Asia  Minor,  on  the  furthest  border  of  what  was  once  the  Roman  Empire. 
They  were  noted  for  their  brisk  frontier  attacks  on  the  Romans.  They  would 
make  a  dash,  and  retreat  as  quickly,  shooting  back  as  they  retreated.  So 
"  a  Parthian  shot  "  came  to  mean  a  shot  sent  back  by  those  who  were  in 
retreat.  Freneau  speaks  of  the  British  as  Parthians,  because,  while  stub 
bornly  retreating  from  the  battle  field  of  Eutaw  Springs,  they  killed  many 
American  troops. 

19  :  12.  Fhcebus,  the  sun.  The  poet  simply  expresses  the  hope  that  those 
who  died  for  their  country  have  gone  to  a  more  pleasant  land. 

JOSEPH    HOPKINSON 

19.  Hail,  Columbia.  This  ode  will  always  be  interesting  to  an  American 
audience  because  of  the  circumstances  that  brought  it  forth.  As  literature 
pure  and  simple,  it  would  probably  not  have  lasted  long,  but  when  it  was 
linked  to  music  and  had  found  its  way  to  the  popular  heart,  it  became  a 
vital  force  that  is  not  likely  to  die  soon.  People  with  delicate  nerves  may 
be  offended  by  the  high  key  in  which  it  is  pitched,  but  a  poem  which  makes 
a  direct  and  sincere  appeal  to  national  patriotism  has,  in  all  countries  and  in 
all  ages,  been  able  to  violate  with  impunity  some  of  the  minor  rules  of  good 
taste.  As  a  poem,  it  has  directness,  sincerity,  and  fervor;  but  it  is  lacking 
in  freshness  of  phrase,  and  in  the  still  higher  literary  quality  of  imaginative 
intensity. 

FRANCIS   SCOTT   KEY 

21.  The  Star-spangled  Banner.  This  lyric,  like  many  others  of  its  class, 
has  been  embalmed  by  being  set  to  popular  music,  and  lives  by  reason  of  its 


328  NOTES 

patriotic  appeal.     It  is  vivid  and  spirited,  and  sincerely  reflects  the  circum 
stances  under  which  it  was  written. 

CLEMENT   CLARKE  MOORE 

23.  A  Visit  from  St.  Nicholas.  Few  poems  have  ever  surpassed  this  in 
giving  voice  to  the  innocent,  excited,  and  expectant  joyousness  of  children  at 
Christmas  time.  The  verses  trip  along  gayly,  and  the  imagination  is  kept  on 
the  alert.  All  hearts  are  moved  by  the  spirit  of  Christmas,  and  any  piece  of 
literature  that  makes  a  direct,  graceful,  and  sincere  appeal  to  this  feeling  is 
sure  of  popularity. 

JOHN   PIERPONT 

25.  The  Exile  at  Rest.  European  themes  were  very  rarely  handled  by 
the  poets  of  the  Early  Period.  The  recent  death  and  burial  of  Napoleon  at 
St.  Helena,  however,  did  not  fail  to  excite  the  public  mind.  In  this  poem 
allusions  are  made  to  Napoleon's  battles  in  Egypt  near  the  pyramids,  as 
well  as  to  his  disastrous  Russian  campaign.  The  use  by  Pierpont  of  such 
worn  phrases  as  "eagle  flag"  and  "martial  form"  places  him  at  once  among 
the  many  imitators  of  Campbell  and  Byron.  But  the  poem  has  compactness 
and  proportion,  and  some  lines  are  musical,  — 

77ie  'mournful  murmur  of  the  surge, 
The  cloud'1  s  deep  voice,  the  wind's  low  sigh. 

And  it  has  at  least  one  flash  of  imagination, — 

As  round  him  heaved,  while  high  he  stood, 
A  stormy  and  inconstant  world. 

26.  Warren's  Address  to  the  American  Soldiers.    This  is  an  imaginary 
address  of  Ceneral  Joseph  Warren  to  his  soldiers   on  the  eve  of  the  battle  of 
Bunker  Hill,  in  1775.     Warren  was  killed  in  this  battle.     lie  was  a  physician 
in  Boston  when  the  war  broke  out,  and  was  one  of  the  most  ardent  patriots 
of  the  Revolution.     Pierpont's  poem  expresses  well  the  feeling  of  the  time, 
and  it  has  directness  and  vividness. 

SAMUEL   WOOD  WORTH 

27.  The  Old  Oaken  Bucket.     Despite  its  poverty  of  literary  merit,  this  poem 
lives  because  it  expresses  a  sentiment  felt  by  all.    Fondness  for  the  recollec 
tions  of  childhood  is  not  so  strong  as  many  other  feelings,  but  it  is  universal. 

RICHARD   HENRY   WILDE 

29.   My  Life  is  like  the  Summer  Rose.     This  popular  lyric  expresses 
the  gentle  melancholy  that  was  made  popular  both  jn  England  and  America 


NOTES  329 

by  Byron.  Our  grandfathers  were  no  more  melancholy  at  heart  than  we  of 
to-day,  but  when  they  put  pen  to  paper  they  followed  the  literary  fashion  of 
the  time.  These  stanzas  of  Wilde's  are  graceful  in  conception,  smooth  in 
meter,  and  sustained  in  sentiment.  This  line  has  been  justly  praised, — 

On  that  lone  shore  loud  moans  the  sea. 

JOHN   HOWARD   PAYNE 

30.  Home,  Sweet  Home.     These  verses  are  commonplace  in  both  thought 
and    language,  but    they   give   expression    in  a  simple    way   to   the    homing 
instinct,  and  this  is  the  vital  spark  that  keeps  them  alive.     The  words,  too, 
have    become    so    intertwined  with   the    music    that   both    bid    fair   to    last 
together. 

FITZ-GREENE   HALLECK 

31.  On  the  Death  of  Joseph  Rodman  Drake.     The  genuine  and  almost 
romantic  friendship  that  existed  between  Halleck  and  Drake  is  exquisitely  set 
forth  in  this  little  elegy.     The  first  stanza,  by  far  the  best,  is  happily  phrased 
and  shows  real  and  deep  feeling.     In  lyric  quality  and  in   genuine   emotion, 
this  poem  marks  a  step  in   advance  of  the  poetry  already  considered.     The 
poem  as  a  whole  is  very  uneven,  however,   both    in  meter   and   language. 
Then,  too,  in  the  following  couplet,  — 

And  long,  where  thou  art  lying, 
Will  tears  the  cold  turf  steep,  — 

we  have  an  example  of  that  exaggerated  sentiment  which  so  pleased  Halleck's 
generation. 

32.  Marco  Bozzaris.     The  struggles  of  the  Greeks  to  keep  their  land  out 
of  the  clutches  of  the  Turks  aroused  the  sympathy  of  the  civilized  world  in 
the  first  quarter  of  the  nineteenth  century.     The  most  spectacular  thing  that 
Byron  ever  did  was  to  lay  down  his  life  for  Grecian  liberty.     In  this  country 
the  cause  of  Greece  was  espoused  by  such  ardent  young  orators  as  Daniel 
Webster  and  Henry  Clay.     It  is  small  wonder,  then,  that   Halleck's  poem 
should  have  been  so  popular  in  its  day  ;    and  it  still  holds  the  attention  by 
its  fire,  vividness,  and  intense  love  of  liberty.     It  is  pitched  in  an  oratorical 
key  like  Campbell's  Hohenlinden,  and,  like   the  latter,  it  lends  itself  easily  to 
schoolboy  declamation. 

33 :  2.  Suliote  band.  A  band  of  Grecian  troops  from  the  city  of  Souli. 
Bozzaris,  who  lead  this  Grecian  band,  was  killed  in  1823. 

33:  5.  the  Persian's  thousands.  The  Persian  army  of  Xerxes  was  defeated 
at  the  battle  of  Platsea  (B.C.  479)  by  the  Spartans  and  other  Greeks.  This 
was  one  of  a  series  of  victories  which  rid  Greece  of  the  Persians  for  all  time. 


330  NOTES 

JOSEPH    RODMAN   DRAKE 

36.  The  American  Flag.  Some  of  the  crudities  of  this  poem  may  be  set 
down  to  the  fact  that  Drake  wrote  it  before  he  was  twenty-four  years  of  age. 
The  first  stanza,  with  its  strained  metaphors,  comes  perilously  near  being 
bombast.  But  the  poem  broadens  and  becomes  more  simple  and  direct  as 
it  goes  on.  In  the  stanza  next  to  the  last  it  approaches  real  imaginative 
power.  As  a  whole,  it  is  the  stirring  martial  ring  of  the  poem  that  makes 
the  most  lasting  impression. 

EDWARD   CO  ATE   PINKNEY 

39,  40.  A  Health.  A  Serenade.  In  metrical  finish,  in  lyric  ease,  in  grace- 
ful  fancy,  and  in  delicate  feeling,  these  two  songs  far  surpass  anything  writ 
ten  in  America  before  Pinkney's  time.  They  were  not,  however,  indigenous 
to  the  soil.  They  are  clearly  a  reflection  of  the  English  Cavalier  poets ;  they 
have  something  of  the  airy  charm  of  Lovelace  and  the  sweet  graciousness  of 
Waller  and  Ilerrick  ;  but  in  lyric  quality  they  mark  progressive  development 
and  point  forward  to  Poe.  A  Health  was  written  in  honor  of  Mrs.  Rebecca 
Sunv.-rville,  of  Baltimore  ;  A  Serenade  in  honor  of  Miss  Georgianna  McCaus- 
land,  whom  the  poet  afterwards  married. 

GEORGE   POPE   MORRIS 

41.  Woodman,  spare  that  Tree  !     Simple  ballads,  if  aptly  expressed,  are 
sure  to  find  lasting  recognition  if  there  runs  through  them  a  thread  of  uni 
versal  sentiment,  no  matter  how  fragile  this  thread  may  be.     Such  a  ballad 
is   Woodman,  spare  that   Tree !     The  appeal  which  it  makes  is  simple  and 
homely,  but  it  is  effective. 

ALBERT  GORTON  GREENE 

42.  The  Baron's  Last  Banquet.     In  the  feudal  setting  of  this  poem,  as 
well  as  in  its  conventional  phraseology,  there  is  a  reminiscence  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott  ;   and  in  its  vividness,  compactness,  and  dramatic  force,  the  influence  of 
Byron  can  be  clearly  seen.     It  is  an  encouraging  sign  to  see  American  poetry 
practicing  its  hand  at  several  varieties  of  verse  ;   it  is  training  itself  for  more 
powerful  expression  in  the  next  generation. 

43  :  7-    Payniw,  pagan. 

43  =  1 8.    Gothic  hall,  a  hall  built  in  the  mediaeval  style  of  architecture. 

43  :  22.    Armed  cap-a-pie,  armed  from  head  to  foot. 


NOTES 


NATHANIEL   PARKER   WILLIS 


331 


45.  Unseen  Spirits.     In  serious  work,  this  poem  shows  Willis  at  his  best. 
It  has   happy  phrasing  and   imagination.      It  also   touches  human  conduct 
more  closely  than  any  poem  yet  considered  ;   it  gets  nearer  to  what  Professor 
Wendell  calls  "  God's  eternities."     American  poetry  was  beginning  to  shake 
off  surface  sentiment  and  to  take  hold  of  life  seriously. 

46.  Spring.     Willis's  lightness  of  touch  and   sprightliness  of  fancy  give 
this  worn  theme  a  new  chaim.     He  also  shows  in  the  poem  an  appreciation 
of  nature  not  very  common  in  his  forerunners.     The  end  is  marked  by  that 
sentimental  moralizing  which  was  extremely  popular  in  Willis's  day. 

CHARLES    FENNO   HOFFMAN 

47.  Monterey.     Monterey  was  one  of  the  earlier  battles  of  the  Mexican 
War.      Hoffman's  poem  is  full  of  martial  spirit,  fittingly  expressed,  and  it  is 
free  from  the  boastfulness  and  extravagance  which  mar  so  many  battle  songs. 
It  has  simplicity,  directness,  real  feeling,  and  that  fine  restraint  which  is  a 
sure  mark  of  good  taste. 

SAMUEL  FRANCIS   SMITH 

49.  America.     It  is  sometimes  the  fashion  to  speak  lightly  of  this  hymn. 
Its  literary  merits,  to  be  sure,  are  not  of  the  highest ;    but  any  song  which 
fairly  sings  itself,  and  which  is  embedded  in  the  hearts  of  a  people,  deserves 
more  than  flippant  consideration. 

PARK   BENJAMIN 

50.  The  Old  Sexton.     In  these  verses  there  is  a  relapse  into  that  very 
serious  mood  which  early  American  writers  got  from  Cowper  and  Gray.     We 
catch  here  "a  breath  from  the  land  of  graves."     The  treatment  of  the  sub 
ject,  however,  is  a  little  -out  of  the  ordinary  manner,  and  it  has  some  traces 
of  imagination.     The  theme  is  commonplace,  but  it  is  never  lacking  in  vital 
interest. 

EPES   SARGENT 

51.  A  Life  on  the  Ocean  Wave.     Sargent  has  put  into  these  verses  some 
thing  of  the  spontaneousness  and  freedom  of  the  sea.     Life  on  the  open  seas 
makes  its  appeal  to  the  imagination  of  a  great  number  of  people  ;   even  those 
who  do  not  care  for  the  "  deep  "  when  it  is  "  rolling  "  like  to  read  about  it. 


332  NOTES 

PHILIP   PENDLETON   COOKE 

52.  Florence  Vane.  Gentle  sentiment,  running  off  into  sentimentality, 
characterizes  this  lyric  ;  but  it  has  a  charm  which  comes  from  delicacy  of  feel 
ing  and  grace  of  expression.  It  lacks  depth  of  feeling,  but  it  is  free  from  the 
sickly  and  feeble  sentiment  which  marked  so  much  of  the  verse  of  this  period; 
it  is  winning  in  its  very  simplicity  and  gentleness.  It  first  appeared  in  the 
Gentleman's  Magazine  during  the  editorship  of  Poe. 

THOMAS   DUNN   ENGLISH 

54.  Ben  Bolt.  Barring  the  touch  of  sentimentality  in  the  first  stanza,  this 
song  rings  true  throughout.  The  poet  strikes  a  falsetto  note  when  he  asks  his 
old  friend,  Ben  Bolt,  if  he  does  not  remember  sweet  Alice,  — 

Who  ive.pt  with  deligJit  when  you  gave  Jier  a  smile, 
And  trembled  with  fear  at  your  frown. 

The  remainder  of  the  poem  deals  with  those  common  but  vital  interests  — 
the  old  mill,  the  old  schoolhouse,  the  shaded  nook,  the  friendships  of  youth 
—  that  have  a  lasting  hold  on  the  human  heart.  When  we  remember  that 
these  themes  are  handled  with  entire  sincerity  and  genuineness  of  feeling,  we 
do  not  wonder  that  the  song,  aided  by  the  music,  has  kept  its  popularity. 
It  is  scarcely  enough  to  dismiss  it  by  saying  that  it  was  a  popular  concert-hall 
song  in  its  day.  Du  Maurier  used  both  the  words  and  music  effectively  in 
Trilby ;  and  to-day  few  songs  in  the  English  language  are  more  widely 
known. 

MIDDLE   PERIOD 

THE  seven  names  —  Bryant,  Emerson,  Longfellow,  Whittier,  Poe,  Holmes, 
and  Lowell  —  stand  out  as  the  foremost  men  of  letters  yet  produced  in  Amer 
ica.  All  of  them  were  born  in  New  England  ;  and  all  of  them  lived  and  died 
there  except  Bryant  and  Poe. 

The  last  fifty  years  of  Bryant's  life  was  spent  in  New  York.  He  left  there 
the  impress  of  a  great  editor  and  of  a  high-minded  citizen.  But  Bryant,  the 
poet,  belongs  to  New  England.  It  was  there  that  he  received  his  early  inspi 
ration,  and  there  he  wrote  much  of  his  best  poetry.  In  New  York  there  was 
always  about  him  a  certain  aloofness  of  manner  and  temper  that  seemed  to 
indicate  that  he  regarded  his  poetic  side  as  something  apart  from  the  busy  life 
of  the  metropolis.  Poe,  on  the  other  hand,  though  a  Bostonian  by  accident 
of  birth,  was  just  as  distinctly  not  a  New  Englander.  By  ancestry,  by  training, 
by  affiliation,  and  by  temperament,  Poe  was  a  child  of  the  South  ;  but  his 
poetry  is  of  such  a  peculiar  kind  that  it  might  have  been  written  anywhere. 


NOTES  333 

It  is  wholly  a  product  of  the  imagination,  and  takes  root  in  no  soil.  Whittier 
was  a  son  of  New  England,  pure  and  simple.  Holmes  was  a  Bostonian  all  his 
life,  and  never  cared  to  be  anything  else.  Longfellow  and  Lowell  represent 
the  finest  flower  of  New  England  culture,  with  an  added  grace  borrowed  from 
the  Old  World.  Emerson,  inheriting  all  that  was  best  in  the  generations  that 
preceded  him,  drawing  into  himself  all  that  was  best  in  his  own  generation, 
was  the  fit  leader  of  the  revival  of  letters  in  New  England  which  followed  the 
collapse  of  early  Puritanism.  In  primal  simplicity,  in  intellectual  distinction, 
in  catholicity  of  taste  and  feeling,  and  in  his  power  to  touch  as  with  living 
fire  the  best  that  is  in  men's  bosoms,  he  must  be  regarded  as  the  foremost 
American  man  of  letters. 

The  other  names  of  this  period  need  not  be  mentioned  here  singly.  They 
differ  in  degree  rather  than  in  kind  from  their  more  distinguished  con 
temporaries.  Greater  and  lesser  alike  were  vitally  influenced  by  the  re 
vival  of  letters  in  New  England,  and  nearly  all  shared  in  common  the 
seriousness  that  accompanied  the  spirit  of  radical  reform  which  culminated 
in  the  Civil  War.  These  two  influences  —  the  New  England  revival  of  let 
ters  and  the  Civil  War  —  were  the  dominant  forces  of  the  Middle  Period; 
and  the  most  notable  characteristics  of  the  literature  produced  during  this 
period  are  seriousness,  strong  feeling,  consciousness  of  national  growth  and 
strength,  a  more  pronounced  individual  note,  and  a  greater  mastery  of 
literary  form. 

During  this  period  of  our  greatest  literary  importance,  American  letters 
were  still  influenced  by  European  literature  ;  nor  is  this  to  be  wondered  at. 
The  rich  and  varied  field  of  English  literature  is  both  an  American  and  an 
English  inheritance.  But  while  English  models  prevailed  in  the  main,  a  more 
pronounced  American  note  grew  louder  and  stronger, —a  note  which  re 
flected  a  new  Anglo-Saxon  life  under  new  conditions.  As  compared  with 
the  great  names  in  English  poetry,  the  chief  American  poets  lack  energy, 
depth,  range,  brilliance,  and  the  power  of  sustained  flight  ;  but  the  inherit 
ance  left  us  by  American  poets  is  precious  on  account  of  its  real  beauty,  unaf 
fected  simplicity,  unconscious  purity,  and  lofty  aspiration. 


I 

Bryant,  Emerson,  Longfellow,  Whittier,  Poe,  Holmes,  and  Lowell 

WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT 

58.    Thanatopsis.     The  name  of  this  poem  comes  from  two  Greek  words 
meaning  "view  of  death."     It  seems  a  little  strange  that  a  youth  of  seventeen 


334  NOTES 

should  have  written  a  poem  on  this  subject,  and  it  is  still  more  remarkable 
that  he  should  have  written  such  a  good  one.  The  fact  that  Bryant  was  a 
delicate  lad,  and  predisposed  to  consumption,  may  have  influenced  his  mind 
in  the  choice  of  themes;  but  his  imagination  never  entirely  freed  itself  from 
"the  land  of  graves,"  even  after  he  had  developed,  by  means  of  careful  habits 
and  systematic  exercise,  into  robust  physical  manhood.  Then,  too,  in  his 
tarlier  years  he  was  under  the  influence  of  Young  and  Cowper  and  others  of 
the  "  churchyard  school "  ;  but  as  he  grew  older  the  influence  of  Wordsworth 
grew  stronger,  and  his  work  shows  a  more  cheerful  contemplation  of  nature. 

In  7 hanatopsis  there  is  shown  the  greatest  reverence  for  nature,  and  this 
reverence  has  a  somberness  which  always  appeals  to  a  certain  side  of  the 
Anglo-Saxon  character.  It  also  has  calm  resignation  to  whatever  may  await 
man  after  death.  There  is  not  a  quiver  or  a  shudder  as  to  the  future.  Nor 
has  death  itself  any  terror.  So  far  as  the  spirit  and  temper  of  the  poem  goes, 
it  might  have  been  written  by  an  Anglo-Saxon  poet  soon  after  landing  on 
English  soil.  The  last  nine  lines  —  so  full  of  stern  courage  and  of  a  calmness 
of  spirit  almost  majestic  —  were  added  to  the  poem  by  Bryant  ten  years  after 
the  original  draft  was  made.  Next  to  this  passage,  the  best-known  line  is  — 

Old  Ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste. 

In  this  poem,  then,  Bryant  shows  dignity,  poise,  reverence  for  nature, 
resignation  to  fate,  and  serene  courage  ;  and  it  is  all  expressed  in  fitting 
language  and  in  effective  blank  verse. 

60.  The  Flood  of  Years.  This  poem,  written  in  Bryant's  mature  years, 
seems  a  sort  of  enlargement  of  Thanatopsis.  It  has  some  of  the  same  som 
berness  and  grimness.  In  the  first  part  of  the  poem,  one  almost  gets  the 
impression  that  Bryant  derives  satisfaction  from  seeing  the  earthly  doings 
of  men  and  women  swallowed  up  by  the  flood  of  the  passing  years;  but  at 
the  close  there  is  more  mellowness,  and  wanner  human  feeling.  The  poem, 
as  a  whole,  lacks  the  spontaneity  and  directness  of  Thanatopsis,  but  it  has 
greater  play  of  the  imagination. 

65.  The    Battlefield.      While    Bryant   sympathized   with    the   antislavery 
movement,  and  in  the  Civil  War  supported  with  his  pen  the  side  of  the  Union, 
yet  he  was  a  man  of  peace  rather  than  of  war.     And  it  was  the  victories 
of  peace  that  seemed  to  him  more  worth  while  than  the  victories  of  war,  — 
the  victory  of  truth  over  falsehood,  of  liberty  over  tyranny,  of  enlightenment 
over  ignorance.     The  third  stanza  from  the  end  is  good  enough  to  make  any 
poem  endure. 

66.  The    Death   of    the    Flowers.      The   first   line  is,   of  course,  very 
familiar.     On  first  reading  the  poem,  one  is  apt  to  think  of  it  as  a  mere  echo 
from   the  graveyard  ;    but   when   it   is  remembered  that   it  was  written   in 


NOTES  335 

memory  of  Bryant's  sister,  who  died  of  consumption,  the  delicacy  of  the 
sentiment  seems  entirely  fitting.  The  poem  contains,  too,  mention  of  more 
American  birds  and  flowers  than  can  be  found  in  any  American  poem  written 
before  it. 

67.  The  Evening  Wind.  Bryant's  human  sympathy,  however  strong  it 
may  have  been,  did  not  often  come  to  the  surface.  This  poem  contains  more 
of  it  than  is  ordinarily  found  in  his  poetry.  The  play  of  the  imagination, 
too,  is  attractive.  The  evening  wind  is  thought  of  as  bringing  in  from  the 
sea  healing  and  life  to  the  weary  and  the  ill,  and  then  carrying  out  again  to 
the  mariners  on  the  sea  hints  of  the  shore  and  of  home.  The  last  four  lines 
have  rarely  been  excelled  for  luminous  beauty. 

69.  To  the  Fringed  Gentian.  The  gentian  is  a  blue  flower  that  covers 
the  New  England  hills  in  autumn.  Bryant's  appreciation  of  its  beauty  is 
genuine  and  spontaneous,  and  his  phraseology  is  felicitous  ;  but  he  could 
not  help  putting  in  at  the  end  a  glimpse  of  death.  "  Eternity,"  says  Mr. 
Woodberry,  "was  always  in  the  same  room  witlj  him." 

69.  To  a  Waterfowl.  This  poem  was  written  not  long  after  Thanatopsis, 
and  first  appeared  in  the  North  American  Review.  These  two  poems  estab 
lished  Bryant's  reputation  as  a  poet.  He  never  wrote  anything  better  during 
his  long  life.  It  most  assuredly  has  nobility,  repose,  proportion,  and  stead 
fast  faith. 

71.  America.  Bryant's  patriotic  verse  often  falls  below  his  poems  deal 
ing  with  nature.  This  poem,  however,  in  its  fine  restraint  and  in  its  deep 
feeling,  far  exceeds  in  merit  any  of  the  fervid,  extravagant,  patriotic  verse  of 
his  predecessors.  There  is  no  screech  of  the  eagle  in  it,  but  there  is  warm 
and  loving  devotion  and  abiding  trust. 

RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON 

75.  Concord  Hymn.  These  simple  but  noble  lines,  among  the  earliest  of 
Emerson's  verses,  celebrate  the  fight  which  took  place  at  the  Concord  Bridge, 
in  1775,  between  the  Minutemen  and  the  British.  A  monument  was  erected 
on  the  spot  in  1836,  not  long  after  Emerson  had  gone  to  live  in  the  Old 
Manse,  at  Concord,  the  house  which  his  grandfather,  the  Rev.  William 
Emerson,  occupied  at  the  time  of  the  battle.  The  Old  Manse  is  only  a 
short  distance  from  the  battlefield.  Hawthorne  once  lived  in  this  house, 
and  here  he  wrote  his  well-known  volume,  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse.  The 
building  is  still  well  preserved.  The  bridge  mentioned  in  the  first  line  is  the 
one  that  spanned  the  Concord  River  near  the  battlefield.  The  river  at  this 
point  is  shallow  and  sluggish,  and  fringed  with  grasses. 

75.    The  Problem.     In  the  first   eight  lines  of  this  poem,  and  in  the  last 


336  NOTES 

two,  Emerson  sets  forth  his  personal  feeling  toward  formal  religion.  He 
likes  a  "  church"  and  a  "  cowl,"  and  "  monastic  aisles  fall  like  sweet  strains  " 
upon  his  heart;  but,  in  spite  of  this,  he  has  no  desire  to  be  an  ecclesiastic. 
He  cares  most  of  all  for  things  of  the  spirit,  and  churches  and  bishops  are 
external  symbols  of  spirituality;  but  Emerson  was  so  extremely  sensitive  on 
his  spiritual  side,  that  anything  like  formalism  seemed  to  him  inadequate. 
So  much  for  Emerson's  personal  feeling  as  expressed  in  The  Problem.  The 
key  to  the  remainder  of  the  poem  may  be  found  in  these  lines  :  — 

The  hand  tJiat  rounded  Peter's  dome, 
And  groined  the  aisles  of  Christian  Rome^ 
Wrought  in  a  sad  sincerity ; 
Himself  from   God  he  could  not  free  ; 
He  builded  better  than  he  knew ; 
The  conscious  stone  to   beauty  grew. 

When  turned  into  prose  the  lines  would  mean,  that  the  hand  that  built  St. 
Peter's  and  the  other  churches  in  Rome  during  the  early  Christian  era  built 
conscientiously,  according  to  fixed  plans  (wrought  in  a  sad  sincerity},  but 
that  the  Spirit  of  God  worked  mysteriously  through  the  builder  and  caused 
him  unconsciously  to  build  something  more  beautiful  than  he  had  planned. 
This  thought  —  the  mysterious  influence  of  God  in  adding  greater  beauty  to 
art  and  life  —  runs  through  the  entire  poem.  This  is  the  problem  that 
Emerson  asks  his  readers  to  solve. 

76 :  4.  Jove  .  .  .  Phidias.  The  Grecian  sculptor  Phidias  did  not  create 
his  statue  of  Jove  "  from  a  vain  and  shallow  thought,"  but  from  conceptions 
of  beauty  and  power  derived  from  above.  This  mysterious  influence  is  com 
monly  called  inspiration. 

76  :  6.  Delphic  oracle.  There  was  in  early  times  an  oracle  at  Delphi,  a 
town  in  Greece,  through  which  the  gods  were  supposed  to  answer  the  inqui 
ries  of  men,  and  to  foretell  the  future. 

76  :  27.    the  Parthenon.     The  most  famous  and  beautiful  of  all  the  Grecian 
temples.     It  was  at  Athens. 

77:  22,  23.  This  is  an  idea  that  Emerson  expresses  again  and  again, — 
that  God  is  in  everything  and  everybody,  and  that  spiritual  forces  always 
make  themselves  felt  everywhere. 

77  :  24.    the  fathers  wise.     The  early  Christian  church  fathers. 

77 :  26.  Old  Chrysostom,  best  Augustine.  These  were  two  of  the  most 
prominent  early  church  fathers.  St.  Chrysostom,  the  patriarch  of  Constan 
tinople,  was  noted  for  his  eloquence.  His  name  comes  from  two  Greek 
words  meaning  golden-mouthed.  This  explains  "  Golden  Lips "  in  line  28. 
St.  Augustine  was  a  writer  of  great  influence  on  theological  subjects. 


NOTES  337 

77 :  27.  And  he  who  blent  doth  in  his  line.  This  refers  to  Jeremy  Taylor 
(1613-1667),  who  is  mentioned  by  name  in  line  29.  He  was  an  amiable, 
scholarly,  and  eloquent  English  divine.  He  was  made  a  bishop  by  Charles  II. 
Emerson  means  that  Taylor,  in  his  line  of  succession  as  a  shining  eccle 
siastical  light,  blended  in  himself  the  good  qualities  of  St.  Chrysostom  and 
of  St.  Augustine.  Emerson  feels  the  great  charm  of  Taylor's  personality 
as  it  is  expressed  in  his  portrait  and  in  his  writings;  but  he  does  not  envy 
him  his  bishop's  robes. 

77  ;  28.  mines  :  gold  mines.  There  is  a  connection  in  thought  here  with 
"Golden  Lips." 

78.  Each  and  All.  Both  in  Each  and  All  and  in  The  Problem,  there  are 
high  and  enduring  thoughts  expressed  obscurely  in  some  places  and  care 
lessly  in  others.  Unfortunately,  many  of  Emerson's  poems  are  marked 
by  twisted  and  sprawling  lines,  and  awkward,  clumsy  rhymes.  This  was 
due,  not  so  much  to  carelessness,  as  to  Emerson's  feeling  that  matter  was 
supremely  more  important  than  manner.  All  the  very  great  poets,  however, 
recognize  clearly  that  immortal  thoughts  must  be  married  to  immortal  verse. 

Let  us  examine  closely  this  poem,  Each  and  All.  If  Emerson  had  been 
a  careful  workman,  he  would  probably  have  begun  the  poem  with  lines  II 
and  12: — 

All  are  needed  by  each  one  ; 
Nothing  is  fair  or  good  alone. 

The  central  idea  of  the  poem  is  expressed  in  these  lines.  In  the  first  ten 
lines  are  four  illustrations  of  this  central  idea.  To  put  these  illustrations  first 
is  unnatural,  and  tends  to  make  the  poem  obscure.  The  clown  and  the  heifer 
and  the  sexton  are  given  as  examples  of  the  truth  expressed  in  line  12,  that  — 

Nothing  is  fair  or  good  alone. 
The  thought  expressed  in  lines  9  and  10  illustrates  the  truth  that  — 


From  line  12  on  to  the  end,  the  main  thought  is  developed  in  an  orderly  way. 
When  the  sparrow  (line  13)  is  taken  from  his  alder  bow  and  brought  into  a 
house,  when  the  delicate  shells  (line  19)  are  brought  away  from  the  sea,  and 
the  graceful  maid  (line  29)  is  taken  from  the  merry  throng  and  placed  in  a 
hermitage,  then  all  lose  something  of  their  beauty  and  charm  :  — 

Nothing  is  fair  or  good  alone. 

79  :  4,  5.  Then  I  said,  "  /  covet  truth  ; 

Beauty  is  unripe  childhood^s  cheat" 
LONG'S  AM.  POEMS  —  22 


338  NOTES 

Emerson  does  not  mean  by  this  that  truth  and  beauty  are  opposites.  He 
simply  means  that  beauty  torn  from  its  setting  lacks  truth,  and  thereby 
becomes  a  cheat,  for  — 

All  are   needed  by  each  one. 

In  the  last  ten  lines  he  looks  about  him  and  finds  oaks  and  acorns  and 
violets  and  the  morning  bird  and  the  rolling  river,  all  in  their  proper  places 
and  in  perfect  unison.  Then  he  exclaims,  — 

Beauty  through  my  senses  stole  ; 

I  yielded  myself  to  the  perfect  whole. 

79.  Days.     The  days  are,  of  course,  personified  when  they  are  spoken  of 
as  the  daughters  of  time.     They  are  called  "  hypocritic  "  (in  the  first  line  of 
the  poem)  because  they  march  along  "muffled  and  dumb,"  giving  no  sign 
of  the  opportunities  they  bring  to  men.     The  poet,  meditating    idly  in   his 
garden,  took  only  a  few  herbs  and  apples,  whereas  he  might  have  had  king 
doms  and  stars.     By  failing  to  make  good   use   of   his  time,  by  neglecting 
opportunities,  he  received  only  the  scorn  of  the  departing  day. 

80.  Forbearance.      The  first  three  lines  of  this  poem  teach  forbearance 
and  self-restraint. 

80  :  3.  .-//  rich  men's  tables.  The  man  of  restraint  is  supposed  to  confine 
himself  to  plain  fare  and  to  avoid  luxuries. 

80  :  7.  Xobility  more  nobly  to  repay.  The  "high  behavior"  (line  5)  that 
comes  from  self-restraint  Emerson  characteri/es  as  "nobility."  To  refrain 
from  praising  it  — because  praise  would  be  inadequate,  or  perhaps  because 
praise  might  seem  patronizing— -  would  be  a  more  noble  way  of  repaying  this 
nobility. 

The  temper  of  the  poem  is  in  strict  keeping  with  Emerson's  theories  of 
plain  living  and  high  thinking.  It  also  embodies  a  rather  common  New  Eng 
land  trait,  —  chariness  in  the  bestowing  of  praise. 

80.  The  Humble-Bee.  Emerson's  first  poem  in  this  collection,  the  Con 
cord  Hymn,  shows  the  author  on  his  patriotic  side  ;  in  77ie  Problem,  Each 
and  All,  Days,  and  Forbearance,  we  see  him  on  his  more  subtle  and  obscure 
side,  as  he  tries  to  interpret  spiritual  realities;  and  in  the  last  three  poems  — 
The  Humble-bee,  The  Snow-storm,  and  The  Rhodora —  we  find  in  him  a  sen 
suous  delight  in  nature  almost  equal  to  that  displayed  by  Wordsworth  and 
Keats. 

Both  the  meter  and  the  thread  of  thought  in  The  Humble-bee  seem  to 
correspond  to  the  clumsy  but  active  movements  of  that  "  zigzag  steerer." 
The  poem  has  freedom  of  movement,  gayety  of  feeling,  quick  play  of  the 
imagination,  and  unusual  delight  in  all  that  appeals  to  the  senses  in  out 
door  life. 


NOTES  339 

82.  The  Snow-storm.      This  poem  is  simply  a  picture  of  a  snowstorm. 
All  moral  and  spiritual  elements  are  lacking  ;   and  the  human  interest  is  also 
slight. 

The  north  wind  (page  82,  line  20),  which  supplies  life  and  action  to  the 
piece,  is  personified  as  a  skillful  mason.  The  poem  is  written  in  dignified 
blank  verse,  which  is  in  keeping  with  the  impressive  work  done  by  the  north 
wind. 

82  :  28.  Parian.  Paros,  in  Greece,  was  noted  for  the  fine  quality  of  its 
marble. 

82  :  31.    Manger,  an  obsolete  word  meaning  in  spite  of. 

83.  The  Rhodora.     Emerson  expresses  here  fully  his  creed  as  regards  the 
beautiful, — 

Beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being, 

and  he  supplements  this  in  the  last  line  by  saying  that  beauty  came  from  God. 
Emerson  thinks  with  Keats  that  — 

A  t hi  tig  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever, 

but  he  goes  a  step  further  and  looks  up  to  the  source  of  all  beauty. 

In  charming  spontaneity,  in  directness,  in  proportion,  in  gentleness  and 
grace,  The  Rhodora  is  by  far  the  best  poem  that  Emerson  has  left.  Both  the 
language  and  the  rhythm  are  smooth  and  flowing,  —  qualities  that  Emerson 
sometimes  lacked. 

83.  Good-by,  Proud  World  !  No  poem  of  Emerson's  expresses  so  accu 
rately,  perhaps,  the  poet's  feeling  of  aloofness  toward  the  bustling  world,  and  at 
the  same  time  his  calm  reliance  for  happiness  upon  himself  and  upon  the 
simple  aspects  of  nature.  It  is  not  the  complaint  of  a  man  disgusted  with  the 
world  —  for  Emerson  admired  men  who  do  things  —  but  of  one  who  felt  sure 
that,  so  far  as  he  himself  was  concerned,  there  were  other  things  better 
worth  while  than  the  things  men  usually  strive  after.  He  gives  expression  to 
this  feeling  in  a  way  that  is  direct,  luminous,  and  simple  without  being 
commonplace. 

HENRY  WADS  WORTH   LONGFELLOW 

86.  The  Skeleton  in  Armor.  There  are  in  New  England  a  few  remains 
of  peculiar  stone  structures,  which  lead  many  to  believe  that  the  Norsemen 
once  dwelt  there.  There  is  a  stone  tower  at  Newport,  in  Rhode  Island,  and 
there  was  unearthed  at  Fall  River,  in  Massachusetts,  a  skeleton  wearing  a 
breastplate  of  metal.  This  skeleton,  which  was  found  buried  in  an  upright 
position,  was  probably  that  of  an  American  Indian,  but  the  poet  chooses  to 
treat  it  as  that  of  a  Norse  Viking,  or  pirate.  He  boldly  transfers  the  man- 


340  NOTES 

ners  and  customs  of  piratical  Norway  to  New  England  shores.  The  Norse 
made  no  permanent  settlement  in  New  England,  but  it  is  reasonably  sure  that 
they  were  the  first  discoverers. 

In  the  first  stanza,  the  poet  questions  the  skeleton,  who,  in  "a  dull  voice  of 
woe,"  tells  the  story  of  his  life,  beginning  at  stanza  three. 

87  :  9.  I  was  a  Viking  old!  A  Viking  was  an  Old  Norse  sea  pirate.  In 
this  line  the  Viking  means  that  he  was  old  when  he  died.  lie  is  young  when 
the  story  begins. 

87  :  II.    Ska/it,  a  Norse  singer  of  heroic  poems;   a  minstrel. 

87  :  12.    Sagd,  the  Old  Norse  goddess  of  history. 

87  :  30.   tvere-ivolfs.     In  Old  Norse  mythology  the  werewolf  was  a  man 
transformed  for  a  time  into  a  wolf. 

88  :  13.    lierserk's.     A  Berserk  was  a  warrior  in  Old  Norse  mythology  who 
fought  furiously  and  without  armor.     The  English  form  of  the  word  would  be 
Bare-shirt, 

89  :  7.    Mute  did  the  minstrels  stand.     Mute  with  astonishment  at  the  bold 
ness  of  the  young  Viking. 

go  :  6.    Skaw,  a  promontory  ;   cape. 

go  :  30.    the  lofty  tower.     This  is  supposed  to  be  the  tower  at  Newport. 

gi  :  23.  Skoal !  This  was  a  term  used  in  drinking  healths  in  ancient 
Norway. 

gi.  The  Cumberland.  Longfellow's  poems  concerning  slavery  and  the 
Civil  War  lack  the  strong  feeling  and  the  sharp  edge  that  mark  similar  work 
by  \Yhittier  and  Lowell.  77ie  Cumberland  is  perhaps  the  best  of  all.  The 
poet's  gentleness  of  spirit  shines  out  in  the  last  two  stan/.as. 

The  fight  between  the  Federal  fleet  of  wooden  warships,  consisting  of  the 
Cumberland,  the  Congress;  and  other  vessels,  and  the  Confederate  fleet,  made 
up  of  the  Merrimac,  an  iron-sheathed  boat  with  an  iron  prow  for  ramming 
purposes,  and  three  other  gunboats,  took  place  in  Hampton  Roads,  Virginia, 
near  the  entrance  to  Chesapeake  Bay,  in  1862.  The  Cumberland  w&  rammed 
and  sunk,  the  Congress  surrendered,  and  the  other  Federal  vessels  scattered. 
In  this  fight,  the  superiority  of  iron-clad  boats  was  so  effectively  demonstrated 
that  it  wrought  a  revolution  in  the  navies  of  the  world. 

gi  :  27.  the  fortress  across  the  bay.  Fortress  Monroe,  on  the  west  side  of 
Chesapeake  Bay. 

g2  :  18.    the  monster's  hide,  the  iron  sheathing  of  the  Merrimac. 

gz  :  25.  kraken.  In  Norway  this  is  the  name  of  a  fabulous  water  animal 
of  enormous  size.  The  reference  here  is  to  the  Merrimac. 

g2  :  27.    un-ack,  the  poetic  form  of  wreck. 

92  :  32.  Still  floated  our  flag.  The  Cumberland  was  sunk  in  such  shallow 
water  that  her  masts  still  stuck  out. 


NOTES  341 

93.  The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus.  The  Hesperus  was  wrecked  on  Nor 
man's  Woe,  a  group  of  rocks  on  the  north  coast  of  Cape  Ann. 

The  poem  is  a  good  imitation  in  meter  and  spirit  of  the  old  English  ballads. 

96.  The  Village  Blacksmith.  Near  Longfellow's  house  at  Cambridge 
there  stood  for  many  years  a  blacksmith  shop  under  a  large  chestnut  tree. 
Longfellow  may  also  have  had  in  mind  one  of  his  own  ancestors  who  was  a 
blacksmith.  The  poem  shows  genuine  sympathy  with  the  life  of  the  lowly, 
and  the  moral  drawn  is  as  wholesome  as  it  is  obvious. 

98.  The  Bridge.  The  poet  is  supposed  to  have  had  in  mind  the  old  bridge 
that  spans  the  Charles  River  as  it  runs  between  Boston  and  Cambridge.  The 
thoughts  and  feelings  expressed  in  the  poem  are  such  as  might  come  to  any 
one  at  such  a  place  and  time,  but  they  are  phrased  so  gracefully  and  so 
rhythmically  that  the  final  effect  fs  extremely  pleasing. 

100.  The  Day  is  Done.     In  refined  and  pensive  sentiment,  and  in  flowing 
melody,  this  lyric  is  as  good  as  anything  Longfellow  ever  wrote. 

101.  My  Lost  Youth.     Longfellow  was  born  and  brought  up  at  Portland, 
Maine,  in  sight  of  the  sea.     In  his  boyish  imagination,  the  islands  he  saw  out 
in  the  sea  were  as  the  Hespcrides  (line  29),  the  islands  in  classical  mythology 
which  were  on  the  western  extremity  of  the  earth,  and  on  which  were  fabulous 
gardens  of  golden  fruit.     Longfellow's  enthusiasm  for  the  sea  is  expressed  in 
many  of  his  poems,  but  never  so  lovingly  or  so  sincerely  as  here.     Genuine 
feeling  beats  through  every  line.     And  he  also  expresses,  as  few  poets  have 
done,  the  puzzled  thoughts  of  a  boy,  filled  with  wonder  and  with  something 
like  awe,  concerning  the  mysteries  of  the  great  world. 

102  :  15.  And  the  fort  upon  the  hill.  Fort  Lawrence,  at  Portland.  Long 
fellow  conceived  the  idea  of  writing  this  poem  one  day  while  he  was  lying  idle 
near  this  fort  and  looking  out  to  sea.  He  was  in  Portland  on  a  visit,  and  as 
he  lay  there  dreaming,  the  recollections  of  his  boyhood  came  to  him  in  a  flood. 

102  :  23.  I  remember  the  sea-fight  far  away.  This  sea-fight  took  place  near 
Portland  in  the  War  of  1812.  Longfellow  was  a  very  young  lad  at  the  time 
of  the  fight. 

102  :  25.  And  the  dead  captains.  The  commanders  of  both  vessels  were 
killed  in  this  sea-fight.  Their  bodies  were  slowly  rowed  ashore  in  barges  and 
buried  with  military  ceremony  in  Portland.  Burrows,  a  Philadelphian,  com 
manded  the  American  brig  Enterprise,  and  Blyth  the  British  brig  Boxer. 

104.  The  Poet  and  His  Songs.     Among  the  last  poems  Longfellow  wrote 
was  this  simple,  sincere,  and  melodious  expression  of  the  poet's  own  feeling  in 
regard  to  his  art.     He  sincerely  believed  that  he  was  divinely  directed  to  write. 

105.  Nature.    Longfellow  delights  in  such  simple  but  effective  comparisons 
as  are  found  in  this  sonnet.     Here,  too,  is  revealed  his  reverence  for  the  ordi 
nary  courses  of  nature.     All  natural  changes  he  regarded  as  beneficent. 


342  NOTES 

106.  Hymn  to  the  Night.  The  poet  says  in  his  diary  that  he  tried  to  express 
in  these  lines  the  thoughts  and  feelings  that  came  to  him  as  he  sat  by  an  open 
window  looking  out  into  the  night.  The  poem  has  grace,  strength,  repose,  and 
imaginative  power  in  a  high  degree. 

106  :  21.  Orestes-like.  Orestes  was  a  hero  in  Greek  tragedies  who  killed  his 
mother,  and  in  consequence  was  pursued  by  the  Furies. 

1 06.  In  the  Churchyard  at   Tarrytown.     This  sonnet  is  a  tribute  to 
Washington  Irving,  who  lived  and  died  and  was  buried  near  Tarrytown,  on 
the  Hudson  River,  a  few  miles  above  New  York  city.     It  is  the  tribute  of  a 
gentle  poet  to  the  gentlest  of  prose  writers. 

107.  The  Republic.     These  are  the  last  lines  of  that  nobly  patriotic  poem, 
'J'he   Building  of  the   Ship.     They  have    an    energy,   a    compactness,  and  a 
cumulative  force  to  which  Longfellow  did' not  often  attain. 

108.  Daybreak.     Many  of  Longfellow's  best  poetic  qualities  appear  in  this 
poem,  —  simplicity,   directness,   proportion,   and   aptness  of  phrase.     At  the 
end  there  is  the  element  of  surprise,  which  is  rarely  lacking  in  poetry  of 
excellence. 

JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 

no.  Proem.  In  this  proem,  or  introduction,  the  poet  modestly  sets  forth  his 
tastes,  his  limitations,  and  his  hopes.  It  is  plain  that  he  wishes  above  all 
things  to  be  considered  the  poet  of  freedom. 

no  :  3.  The  songs  of  Spenser's  golden  days.  lie  means  the  poems  of  the 
Eli/.abethan  period,  of  which  Edmund  Spenser,  the  author  of  The  Faerie 
Queenc,  was  one  of  the  chief  ornaments. 

no  :  4.  Arcadian  Sidney's  silvery  phrase.  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  a  brilliant 
courtier,  soldier,  and  poet  of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  was  the  author  of  a  prose 
romance  called  Arcadia. 

in  :  13.  unanointed eyes.  The  custom  of  anointing  the  head  with  oil  was, 
among  the  early  Jews,  an  act  of  consecration.  Whittier  means  that  his  own 
eyes  had  no  unusual  power  in  observing  nature. 

in  :  26.  Marvell's  wit.  Andrew  Marvell  was  a  patriot,  satirist,  and  minor 
poet  of  Milton's  time. 

112.  Ichabod.  After  Daniel  Webster's  famous  reply  to  Hayne,  he  was 
regarded  as  the  great  champion  of  the  Union  against  the  doctrine  of  states' 
rights  as  proclaimed  by  John  C.  Calhoun  and  others,  and  as  the  opponent  in 
general  of  all  proslavery  influences.  In  1850,  however,  he  made  a  speech 
in  defense  of  a  fugitive  slave  law  which  his  former  admirers  regarded  as  a  bid 
for  Southern  support  in  his  candidacy  for  the  Presidential  nomination.  His 
change  of  attitude  was  received  in  humiliation  and  scorn  by  many  of  his 
former  supporters.  Whittier  expresses  in  this  poem  the  feelings  of  this  class. 


NOTES  343 

Few  poems  deserve  to  rank  higher,  than  this  for  its  reserve,  intensity,  and 
sustained  dignity. 

113.  The  Lost  Occasion.  Ichabod  was  written  in  1850.  Just  thirty  years 
later  Whittier  wrote  another  poem  which  is  almost  as  good  as  Ichabod,  and 
in  which  he  magnanimously  made  amends  for  any  possible  injustice  he  may 
have  done  to  the  great  orator  and  statesman  in  the  first  poem.  The  second 
poem,  full  of  feeling  and  dignity,  is  just  in  its  praise,  and  is  also  marked  by 
reverence  and  tenderness. 

115.  The  Farewell.  These  lines  show  Whittier  at  his  best  as  an  anti- 
slavery  poet.  They  have  a  rhythmical  movement  and  a  repressed  fervor  that 
make  them  effective.  They  are  marred  in  places  by  such  conventional 
phrases  as  "  the  tyrant's  power  "  and  "  the  fetters  fall  no  more." 

113.  Laus  Deo!  This  is  an  exultant  song  of  praise  and  thanksgiving  for 
the  abolition  of  slavery.  Whittier  at  last  saw  his  dearest  hopes  realized,  and 
he  breaks  out  in  sincere  and  joyous  song  ;  and  the  tone  of  gladness  is  not 
so  much  personal  as  patriotic. 

120.  Skipper  Ireson's  Ride.  This  ballad  of  life  among  the  fisher  folk  of 
the  Massachusetts  coast  is  full  of  picturesque  detail  and  vivid  description, 
and  it  has  rapidity  of  movement  and  dramatic  power. 

120  :  3.  Apuleins's  Golden  Ass.  Apuleius,  a  Roman  philosopher  of  the  second 
century,  A.D.,  compiled  a  romance  called  77ie  Golden  Ass.  Magic  plays  an 
important  part  in  it. 

120  :  4.  one-eyed  Calendar's  horse  of  brass.  In  the  Arabian  Nights  is  a  story 
of  a  prince  who  traveled  about  disguised  as  a  one-eyed  dervish.  Among  his 
many  adventures  was  a  ride  through  the  air  on  a  magical  horse  with  wings. 

120:  6.  I  slant1  s  prophet  on  Al-Bordk.  Mohammed  is  said  to  have  made  a 
night  journey  from  Mecca  to  Jerusalem,  and  thence  to  the  seventh  heaven, 
on  a  wondrous  imaginary  animal  named  Al-Borak. 

1 20  :  30.  Manads.  These  were  priestesses  of  Bacchus,  the  god  of  wine. 
The  term  is  often  applied,  as  it  is  here,  to  a  woman  beside  herself  with 
excitement. 

I2.I  :  5.    Chaleur  Bay  is  in  Canada,  near  Quebec. 

123.  The  Barefoot  Boy.  The  wide  popularity  of  this  poem  is  probably 
due  to  the  fact  that  Whittier  draws  for  generations  of  grown-up  barefoot 
boys  a  sincere  and  sympathetic  picture  of  what  they  were  in  their  boyhood 
days. 

125  :  i.    Apples  of  Hesperides.     See  note  to  page  101. 

125  :  34.    moil,  toil,  drudgery. 

126.  Telling  the  Bees.  It  was  an  old  custom  in  rural  New  England  to 
tell  the  bees  whenever  a  member  of  the  family  died,  and  to  drape  the  hives 
in  mourning.  It  was  supposed  that  this  ceremonial  would  keep  them  from 


344  NOTES 

seeking  a  new  home.  Lowell  says  that  ;n  this  poem  "  description  and  senti 
ment  naturally  inspire  each  other."  The  result  of  this  happy  blending  is  a 
poem  of  unusual  charm. 

128.  My  Playmate.  There  is  in  this  poem  also  the  same  skillful  union  of 
description  and  sentiment  that  Telling  the  Bees  contains  ;  but  the  sentiment 
is  gentle  and  pensive  rather  than  pathetic.  Both  poems  have  lyrical  charm  ; 
and  both  produce  their  effect  so  surely  that  one  is  tempted  to  say  that  the 
feeling  in  them  is  personal. 

130.  Amy  Wentworth.  It  is  doubtful  if  this  attractive  ballad  is  so  well 
known  as  it  deserves  to  be.  The  setting  of  the  story  is  placed  in  one  of  the 
older  New  England  seaport  towns,  Portsmouth,  where  the  east  winds  come  in 
fresh  from  Labrador.  In  such  towns  there  survived,  almost  up  to  the  Civil 
War,  a  flavor  of  colonial  life.  A  few  families  still  cherished  their  coats  of 
arms,  and  otherwise  kept  faintly  alive  the  traditions  of  aristocratic  life  in  the 
mother  country.  A  scion  of  such  a  family,  Amy  Wentworth,  loves,  and  is 
loved  by,  a  stalwart  New  England  fisherman  ;  and  both  are  happy.  Here 
appears  again  the  old,  old  theme  that  love  knows  no  law.  Such  a  story  is 
common  in  the  ballads  of  England  and  Scotland,  but  Whittier  has  given  in 
it  a  fresh  setting  and  adorned  it  anew  with  real  human  interest. 

132.  The  Eternal  Goodness.  No  American  poem  of  religious  faith  and 
devotion  stands  above  this  in  sincerity  of  feeling  and  effectiveness  of  expression. 

EDGAR   ALLAN   FOE 

139.  To  Helen.  Universal  praise  has  been  bestowed  upon  this  poem  for 
its  grace  and  delicacy  of  thought  and  for  its  perfection  of  lyrical  form. 

The  imagery  of  the  poem  is  not  clear  at  first  reading.  In  the  first  stanza 
Helen  is  spoken  of  as  a  woman  whose  rare  beauty  soothed  and  charmed  the 
"  wayworn  wanderer  ";  in  the  second  stanza,  her  beauty  is  of  such  classic  form 
that  it  suggests  thoughts  of  ancient  glory  and  grandeur  ;  while  in  the  third, 
Helen  is  identified  with  Psyche,  a  statue  of  whom  the  poet  sees  in  his  "  window- 
niche."  Poe  often  invests  human  beings  with  more  than  earthly  beauty  and 
charm. 

139  :  2.  Nictran.  Nicaea  was  a  town  in  Asia  Minor.  There  was  also  a  town 
in  Italy  of  the  same  name. 

139  :  8.   Naiad.     In  ancient  mythology,  the  naiads  were  water  nymphs. 

139:  14.  Psyche,  a  beautiful  maiden  in  Greek  mythology;  the  personifica 
tion  of  the  human  soul. 

139.  To  One  in  Paradise.  The  note  struck  in  these  lines  is  one  of  dis- 
pairing  lament.  The  poem  has  the  conciseness,  the  unity,  and  the  proportion 
of  the  perfect  lyric  ;  and  the  thought  is  perfectly  clothed  in  fitting  language 
and  rhythm. 


NOTES  345 

140.  The  Bells.  No  poet  has  gone  further  in  making  the  sound  fit  the  sense 
—  in  making  the  words  suggest  the  thought  —  than  Poe  has  in  The 
Bells.  He  has  also  imparted  to  the  poem  a  rapid  movement  that  bears  the 
reader  along  almost  breathless.  Furthermore,  he  attributes  human  qualities 
to  the  bells  in  a  way  that  is  startling. 

144.  The  Raven.  One  of  Poe's  most  characteristic  moods  is  dramatically 
set  forth  in  The  Raven.  It  is  midnight  in  December.  The  fire  light  is  cast 
ing  its  shadows.  The  poet  is  dozing  over  his  books  when  he  is  startled  by  a 
rap  on  the  door.  His  mind  is  filled  with  dreams  of  his  lost  Lenore.  With  a 
beating  heart  he  opens  the  door  and  peers  out  into  the  darkness.  He  sees 
no  one,  but  hears  the  whispered  word  "  Lenore."  No  sooner  is  he  back  in 
his  chamber  than  he  hears  a  tapping  at  his  window  lattice.  He  throws  open 
the  shutter,  and  in  walks  a  strange,  silent  raven  that  perches  itself  above  his 
chamber  door.  An  excited  and  disordered  brain  now  flings  all  sorts  of  ques 
tions  at  the  bird,  who  continues  to  sit  and  stare  and  answer  stolidly,  "  Never 
more." 

So  much  for  the  "  machinery  "  of  the  poem,  which  is,  of  course,  handled 
cleverly.  The  stage  setting  is  such  that  the  imagination  is  stirred  and  excited. 
We  have  mystery,  despondency,  disappointment,  and  at  the  end  hopeless 
despair.  What  is  the  cause  of  all  this  ?  There  is  only  one  tangible  cause 
and  that  is  the  lost  Lenore,  whom  the  poet  is  not  sure  that  he  shall  ever  see 
again.  Further  than  this  one  may  read  into  the  poem  as  much  or  as  little  as 
one  chooses.  The  unearthly  raven  may  be  regarded  as  a  reminder  of  an  un 
happy  past,  or  as  a  prophet  of  evil  for  the  future  ;  or  it  may  simply  be  taken 
as  a  part  of  the  "  machinery  "  by  which  Poe  set  forth  the  prevailing  mood  of 
the  poem, — that  of  hopeless  lament.  But  the  poem,  however  interpreted, 
is  filled  with  strange  melody  and  startling  suggestions  that  affect  the  imagina 
tion  powerfully. 

145:17.  Pallas,  one  of  the  names  of  Athena,  the  Greek  goddess  of 
wisdom. 

145  :  23.  Plutonian.  In  ancient  mythology,  Pluto  was  the  god  of  the  lower 
regions. 

147:15.   Aidenn,  Eden. 

148.  The  Haunted  Palace.  The  first  part  of  this  poem  contains  a  descrip 
tion,  good  beyond  all  praise,  of  the  palace,  with  its  beautiful  surroundings, 
that  was  erected  in  the  dominion  of  the  monarch  Thought.  Then  come 
"evil  things,  in  robes  of  sorrow,"  who  assail  this  monarch  and  make  him 
desolate.  After  this  the  melody  becomes  discordant,  and  a  "  hideous  throng  " 
rush  out  of  the  palace  forever  —  "but  smile  no  more."  The  "evil  things, 
in  robes  of  sorrow,"  may  be  taken  to  mean  all  manner  of  evil  thoughts 
and  desires  that  enter  into  the  mind  and  destroy  its  spiritual  beauty.  The 


NOTES 

palace  of  Thought  becomes  a  place  haunted  by  a  "  hideous  throng  "  of  evil 
spirits. 

149  :  1 8.    red-litten  is  an  old  form  for  red-lighted. 

149.  The  City  in  the  Sea.  Many  critics  regard  this  poem  as  the  highest 
example  of  Poe's  art.  lie  paints  for  the  imagination  a  picture  of  a  phantom 
city  lying  alone,  far  off  in  the  dim  West,  in  a  stagnant  sea,  where  Death  has 
made  for  himself  a  throne.  No  earthly  light  shines  upon  this  city,  but  a  light 
from  out  the  lurid  sea.  No  wind  blows  from  a  far-off  happier  sea.  This  sea 
is  "hideously  serene."  Its  waters  are  on  a  level  with  the  gaping  graves  of 
the  city.  Suddenly  there  comes  a  slight  stir  in  the  air,  and  a  slight  move 
ment  on  the  wave.  The  city  settles  down,  down,  "amid  no  earthly  moans,'' 
and  is  received  with  reverence  by  hell. 

It  would  be  difficult  for  the  imagination  to  draw  a  more  vivid  picture  of 
complete  desolation. 

151.  Israfel.  One  writer  has  characterized  Israfel  as  "trashy";  but  a 
greater  critic,  Mr.  Stedman,  says:  "  If  I  had  any  claim  to  make  up  a  '  Par 
nassus,'  not  perhaps  of  the  most  famous  English  lyrics,  but  of  those  which 
appeal  strongly  to  my  own  poetic  sense,  and  could  select  but  one  of  Poe's,  I 
confess  that  I  should  choose  Israfel." 

The  poem  is  different  in  spirit  from  most  of  Poe's  work.  There  is  no 
melancholy  and  no  lament.  It  is  filled  with  a  spirit  of  exaltation.  He  recog 
nizes  the  human  limitations  of  earthly  poets,  and  rejoices  that  Israfel  could 
sing  more  divinely.  He  envies  him  his  heavenly  powers,  for  poetry  with  Poe 
was  "  not  a  purpose,  but  a  passion." 

153.  The  Sleeper.  Poe's  mind  loved  to  dwell  upon  such  pictures  of  van 
ishing  beauty  as  this  poem  contains.  It  is  midnight  in  June,  and  all  the 
beauty  of  external  nature  seems  asleep.  The  beautiful  lady,  with  the  "  length 
of  tress,"  is  also  sleeping,  but  in  the  sleep  of  death.  The  poet  hopes  that 
her  sleep  may  always  be  so  deep. 

The  poem  contains  scarcely  a  hint  of  life  beyond  the  grave.  This  may  be 
regarded  as  one  of  the  moods  of  the  poet.  He  seems  to  think  for  the  mo 
ment  that  endless  sleep  is  a  thing  to  be  desired.  It  is  a  passing  thought, 
however,  for  in  other  poems  he  speaks  of  love  that  shall  be  eternal. 

155.  Ulalume.  Poe  wrote  this  poem  not  long  after  the  death  of  his  wife, 
and  it  is  a  personal  lament  filled  with  anguish.  He  imagines  himself  as  walk 
ing  in  the  moonlight  with  Psyche,  who  is  his  soul  personified.  There  is  some 
thing  sinister  in  the  aspect  of  nature  itself  which  forebodes  sorrow.  The 
skies  are  ashen  and  the  leaves  are  withering.  The  light  of  the  stars  has  a 
strange  pallor.  The  poet  tries  to  conquer  the  gloom  of  his  soul,  but  suddenly 
he  comes  upon  the  tomb  of  his  lost  Ulalume,  and  he  remembers  that  it  is  the 
anniversary  of  his  wife's  death.  The  poem  then  closes  in  absolute  gloom. 


NOTES  347 

By  his  imagination  Poe  created  for  the  main  incident  of  the  poem  (the 
finding  of  the  tomb  of  his  wife)  a  background  which  fits  that  incident;  and  he 
invested  this  background  with  the  half-earthly  and  half-spiritual  atmosphere 
of  the  grave.  It  was  along  this  borderland  that  his  imagination  had  its 
liveliest  play. 

155  :  6.  Auber.  This  lake  and  all  other  geographical  terms  in  the  poem 
existed  only  in  Toe's  imagination. 

155  :  12.    Psyche,  a  beautiful  maiden  who,  in  Greek  mythology,  personified 
the  soul.     Cupid,  the  boy-god  of  love,  married  her. 

156  :  6.    Astarte's.     Astarte  was  the  moon  goddess  of  the  ancient  Phoeni 
cians. 

156  :  8.  Dian,  the  shortened  poetic  form  of  Diana,  the  Roman  goddess  of 
the  moon,  and  also  of  the  chase. 

156  :  13.   the  Lion,  a  sign  of  the  zodiac;    the  constellation  Leo. 

156  :  15.  Lethean.  In  ancient  mythology,  Lethe  was  one  of  the  rivers  of 
Hades,  whose  waters,  when  drunk,  caused  forgetfulness  of  the  past. 

158.  Annabel  Lee.  This  poem  also  was  written  shortly  after  the  death  of 
Poe's  wife.  It  was  perhaps  the  last  poem  that  he  wrote.  The  music  of  the 
lines  has  charmed  thousands  who  care  little  for  the  sentiment.  It  is  a  story  of 
disappointment  and  of  deathless  love.  The  sentiment  is  morbid,  but  the 
charm  of  the  verse  makes  it  seem  very  real. 

OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 

161.  Old  Ironsides  was  written  for  a  Boston  newspaper,  just  after  Holmes 
had  gone  out  from  college.     It  was  a  spirited  protest  against  the  breaking 
up  of  the  frigate   Constitution,  which  had  won  a  brilliant  victory  over  the 
Guerriere  in  the  War  of  1812.     The  feeling  of  the  nation   was  so  greatly 
stirred  that  the  old  frigate  was  allowed  to  slumber  in  peace  for  half  a  century 
in  the  Charlestown  Navy  Yard. 

162.  The  Last  Leaf.     Poems  like  this  are  often  called  "  society  verse." 
They  are   marked   by  conciseness,  lightness  of  touch,  grace  of  phrase,  and 
refinement  of  feeling.     The  Last  Leaf  appeared  in  Holmes's  first  volume  of 
verse.      It  has  the  mingling  of  seriousness  and  humor  for  which  Holmes  was 
noted,  and  the  blending  is  done  so  deftly  that  there  is  never  a  jar. 

The  original  of  this  picture  was  Major  Thomas  Melville,  who  took  part  in 
the  Boston  "  tea-party  "  affair.  He  was  a  well-known  character  about  town 
in  Holmes's  boyhood. 

164.  The  Chambered  Nautilus.  In  graceful  imagination  and  in  simple 
beauty  of  phrase,  this  is  as  perfect  as  anything  Holmes  wrote. 

164  :  5.  Siren.  The  Sirens,  in  ancient  mythology,  were  birds  with  the 
faces  of  women,  found  on  the  shores  and  islands  of  the  Mediterranean,  who, 


348  NOTES 

by  their  sweet  voices,  enticed  ashore  those  who  were  sailing  by,  and  then 
killed  them. 

164  :  26.  Triton,  a  fabled  sea  god,  the  son  and  trumpeter  of  Neptune,  the 
chief  god  of  the  sea. 

165.  The  Living  Temple.  It  has  been  said  that  the  practice  of  medicine 
has  a  tendency  to  make  callous  the  feelings,  and  to  blunt  the  imagination. 
Holmes,  however,  treats  the  human  body  reverently,  as  the  mystic  temple 
of  the  spirit. 

167.  Nearing  the  Snow-line.  Holmes  rarely  handled  the  sonnet  with 
skill,  but  in  this  one  he  shows  unity  of  conception,  a  sustained  flow  of  melo 
dious  verse,  and  undoubted  nobility  of  feeling. 

167.  The  Boys.  This  poem  was  read  at  a  reunion  of  the  Harvard  class 
of  1829,  on  its  thirtieth  anniversary.  It  is  a  good  example  of  Holmcs's  occa 
sional  verse,  jocular  at  the  beginning,  but  ending  in  seriousness  and  tender 
ness. 

Most  of  the  men  referred  to  were  men  of  note  at  the  time  of  this  celebra 
tion,  but  the  only  name  familiar  to-day,  outside  of  legal  and  academic  circles, 
is  that  of  the  author  of  America  —  "  Fate  tried  to  conceal  him  by  naming  him 
Smith." 

JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL 

171.  What  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June?  (from  The  Vision  of  Sir  Laun- 
fal).  Lowell,  as  a  poet  of  nature,  is,  perhaps,  more  spontaneous  in  these  lines 
than  in  any  he  wrote.  They  are  taken  from  the  prelude  of  The  Vision  of 
Sir  La  un fal,  a  poem  in  which  a  young  knight  goes  forth  to  seek  for  the 
Holy  Grail,  the  cup  whicn,  according  to  tradition,  our  Lord  drank  from  at 
the  Last  Supper.  The  blossoming  June  time  typifies  the  young  knight  in  the 
first  flush  of  his  powers. 

173.  The  Courtin'.  This  back-kitchen  pastoral  of  New  England  farm 
life  was  inserted  in  77/6'  Biglow  Papers  as  a  sort  of  prelude,  and  is  in  the 
same  up-country  Yankee  dialect.  Its  charm  lies  in  its  simplicity  and  humor, 
and  in  its  fidelity  to  local  color  and  to  human  nature. 

175  :  6.     the  sekle,  the  sequel,  the  outcome. 

176  :  13.     they  was  cried.     The  betrothal  was  announced  in  church. 

176.  A  Vision  of  Peace  (from  The  Biglow  Papers).  These  stan/as  were 
written  near  the  close  of  the  Civil  War.  The  words  arc  spoken  by  Ilosea 
Jjiglow,  a  New  England  countryman,  into  whose  mouth  Lowell  puts  most  of 
the  words  of  The  Biglow  Papers.  Lowell  says,  in  the  preface,  that  this  up- 
country  Yankee  was  "  capable  of  district-school  English,"  but  that,  when 
deeply  stirred,  he  was  apt  to  lapse  into  his  native  dialect. 

In  the  stanzas  given  here,  Hosea  Biglow,  abiding  quietly  at  home,   pre- 


NOTES  349 

sumably  too  old  to  see  active  service,  laments  the  loss  in  the  war  of  "  three 
likely  lads  "  whom  he  once  trundled  on  his  knee,  and  wishes  for  that  vic 
torious  peace  which  shall  mean  "  a  nation  saved."  Perhaps  it  is  not  too  much 
to  say  that  he  speaks  Lowell's  own  feelings,  for  three  of  the  latter's  young 
kinsmen  fell  in  the  war. 

178.  Lincoln  (from  an  Ode  recited  at  the  flarvard  Commemoration, 
July  21,  1865).  When  Lowell  wrote  this  ode,  from  which  is  taken  the  stanza 
on  Lincoln  given  here,  his  heart  was  still  tender  for  the  loss  of  those  near 
him,  and  for  the  sorrows  of  many  of  his  friends  and  acquaintances.  The  Ode 
is  obscure  in  places,  and  seems  lacking  in  passion  ;  but  in  sustained  nobility 
of  thought  and  feeling  it  shows  Lowell  at  his  best,  and  seems  to  be  gaining 
in  favor  as  time  passes.  It  is  doubtful,  too,  if  the  character  of  Lincoln  has 
ever  been  more  truthfully  portrayed.  The  wonder  is  that  this  portrayal  is  so 
entirely  free  from  the  blurs  that  partisan  feeling  was  prone  to  give  to  any 
picture  painted  in  1865.  Lowell  shows  himself  the  true  poet  when  he  draws  a 
portrait  which  all  time  is  likely  to  accept. 

1 80.  Virginia    (from    Under  the    Old  Elni).      When    Washington    took 
command  of  the  American  army  at  Cambridge,  in  1775,  a  few  clays  after  the 
battle  of  Bunker   Hill,  he   stood  under   an   elm,  near  Cambridge   Common, 
which  is  still  well  preserved.      A  stone  at  its  base  bears  an  inscription  which 
tells  of  the  event.     In  1875,  one  hundred  years  after  Washington  had  stood 
there,  a  celebration  was  held  by  the   citizens  of  Cambridge,  and  Lowell  read 
the  poem   from  which  these  lines  on  Virginia  are  taken.      Lowell  pictures  to 
the  imagination  the  rude  and  disorganized  army  then  gathered  at  Cambridge, 
lie  shows  how  Washington,  in  stature  as  well  as   in  moral  and   intellectual 
qualities,  towered  above  the  other  leaders  gathered  there,  and  how  he  infused 
his  own  spirit  into  the  discordant  elements,  and  made  of  them  an  effective 
American  army.     Then  he  praises  the  character  of  Washington  in  measured 
but  exalted  phrases,  describing  him  as  a 

High-poised  example  of  great  duties  done. 

Finally,  he  breaks  forth  in  words  of  generous  praise  for  Virginia,  who  "gave 
us  this  imperial  man."  lie  takes  occasion  to  make  full  and  final  reparation 
for  anything  harsh  that  he  may  have  said  against  the  South  in  The  Biglow 
Papers,  when  partisan  feeling  ran  strong,  and  makes  an  irresistible  plea 
for  the  mutual  good  feeling  that  existed  in  "  the  dear  old  unestranged  days." 
It  is  an  interesting  fact  that  Lowell  and  Whittier,  the  stoutest  opponents  of 
slavery  among  the  New  England  men  of  letters,  were  the  most  magnanimous 
in  their  attitude  toward  the  South  after  the  war  was  fought  and  won. 

181.  To  the  Dandelion.     In  felicity  of  phrase  and  in  melody  of  verse,  these 
lines  show  Lowell  at  his  best  as  a  poet  of  nature.      His  verse  is  often  lacking 


350  NOTES 

in  smoothness,  and  many  of  his  rhymes  are  not  above  reproach;  but  here  he 
shows  unusual  perfection  of  form,  united  with  an  attractive  play  of  the  fancy. 

182  :  I.  Eldorado.  This  is  a  Spanish  word  meaning  "  the  golden  region  "  ; 
a  country  fabled  to  be  very  rich  in  precious  metals. 

182  :  18.  The  golden  cuirassed  bee.  The  cuirass  is  a  breastplate  of  metal. 
The  reference  here  is,  of  course,  to  the  yellow  breast  of  the  bee. 

182  :  21.    Sybaris  was  an  ancient  town  of  Italy,  noted  for  its  luxury. 

183.  Hebe.      Hebe  was,  in  ancient  mythology,  the  cupbearer  of  the  gods. 
In  this  poem  she   is   thought   of  as   one  who  distributes  the  prizes  of  life. 
Lowell's  love  of  moralizing  appears  often  in  his  verse,  but  rarely  with  such 
graceful  effect  as  in  these  lines. 

184.  She  Came  and  Went,     Few  poems  of  personal  lament  are  so  simple 
and  sincere  as  this. 

185.  Auf  Wiedersehen.     There  is  an  elusive  charm  about  these  stanzas  that 
is  hard  to  put  into  words.     Auf  Wiedersehen  is  a  German  phrase  equivalent  to 
the   French   an   revoir.     There    is  no   exact    English   equivalent.     It   means 
good-by,  with  the  hope  of  meeting  again. 

II 

Additional  Poets 
WALT  WHITMAN 

186.  0  Captain!  My  Captain!     Even  Whitman's  severest  critics  are  will 
ing  to  give  hearty  praise  to  this  poem,  which  sets  forth  simply,  fitly,  and  nobly 
the    poet's   intense    personal  loyalty  to    Lincoln,  and  his   deep   and   sincere 
lament    for    the    death    of  his  great    captain.     The    poem   shows,   too,   that 
Whitman  was  a  master  of  poetic  form  whenever  he  cared  to  be.      Many  of 
his  admirers  wish  that  he  had  put  into  proper  metrical  garb  those  bursts  of 
noble  feeling  and  those  flights  of  the  imagination  which  he  chose  to  clothe  in 
ragged  language  and  formless  meter. 

187.  As    Toilsome    I   wander'd   Virginia's   Woods.       Tender   human 
feeling  and  a  spirit  of  comradeship  are  two  of  Whitman's  most,  admirable 
traits. 

188.  When  Lilacs  last  in  the   Door-yard  Bloom'd.     This  is  Lincoln's 
burial  hymn.     It  lacks  the  finish,  directness,  and  exalted  emotion  of  O  Captain  ! 
My  Captai)i!  but  it  has  an  idyllic  charm  of  its  own.     In  a  vague  way,  Whit 
man  likens  the  elemental  simplicity  of  Lincoln  to  the  everlasting  simplicity  of 
nature.     Mr.  Stedman  regards  this  hymn  and  Lowell's   Commemoration   Od? 
as  the  two  noblest  elegies  growing  out  of  the  events  of  the  Civil  War. 

189  :  II.    blows,  blossoms. 


NOTES  351 

HENRY  PETERSON 

193.  From  an  Ode  for  Decoration  Day.  Such  a  poem  as  this  marks  the 
slow  but  sure  growth  of  the  spirit  of  reconciliation  between  the  North  and  the 
South  which  sprang  up  after  the  Civil  War.  Its  patriotic  and  generous  spirit 
appeals  to  all  minds,  —  a  spirit  which  says  :  — 

A  brave  man's  hatred  pauses  at  the  tomb. 

193  :  4.  By  Yorkta-wris  field  and  Montezumtfs  clime.  The  Revolution  and 
the  Mexican  War  are  referred  to. 


WILLIAM  WETMORE  STORY 

194.  lo  Victis.     The  commonplace  thought,  that  those  who  are  seemingly 
defeated  in  any  given  struggle  are  sometimes  the  real  moral  victors,  has  rarely 
been  more  impressively  expressed  than  in  this  poem. 

195.  16.    The  martyrs,  the  early  Christian  martyrs  in  Rome.     Nero,*,  base 
and  cruel  Roman  emperor,  who  condemned  many  Christian  martyrs  to  death 
during  his  reign.      77ie  Spartans,  a  brave  band  of  Greeks,  led  by  Leonidas, 
who  withstood  the  Persians  under  Xerxes  at  Thermopylae. 

195  :  17.  Socrates,  an  Athenian  philosopher,  condemned  to  death  for  teach 
ing  what  was  considered  false  doctrine.  Pilate.  Pontius  Pilate,  a  Roman  gov 
ernor  in  Judea,  under  whom  Christ  was  crucified. 

JULIA  WARD  HOWE 

196.  Battle-Hymn   of    the    Republic.      These   verses,   written   in    1861, 
were   inspired   by  the    sight   of  soldiers    marching   through   Washington    to 
the  front.     They  have  a  moral  and  patriotic  elevation  of  feeling,  expressed 
with  poetic  grace  and  imagination,  which  places  them  far  above  most  of  the 
poetry  of  the  period  ;  and  it  seems  likely  that  their  popularity  will  endure. 

THOMAS  WILLIAM  PARSONS 

197.  On  a  Bust  of  Dante.     Mr.  Stedman  says  that  this  poem,  "in  structure, 
diction,  loftiness  of  thought,  is  the  peer  of  any  modern  lyric  in  our  tongue." 
This  praise    may  be   too    high,   but    the    poem  has  admirable  compactness, 
directness,  and  elevation  of  thought. 

Dr.  Parsons  belonged  to  an  enthusiastic  band  of  Dante  scholars  in  America, 
eminent  among  whom  should  be  mentioned  Longfellow,  Lowell,  and  Pro 
fessor  Charles  Eliot  Norton. 

Dante  (1265-1331)  was  an  Italian  poet  and  soldier.  He  was  the  greatest 
of  Italian  poets,  and  his  poetry  takes  rank  with  the  great  poetry  of  the 


352  NOTES 

world.  His  best-known  work  is  the  Divine  Comedy,  a  vision  of  purgatory 
and  paradise.  In  this  vision  he  sees  the  good  and  the  bad  who  have  gone 
before  him. 

Dante's  spirit  was  embittered  in  his  later  years  by  political  turmoil  and 
exile. 

197:  I.    this  counterfeit.     This  bust  of  marble. 

197  :  2.    Arno,  a  river  in  Italy,  on  which  Florence  is  situated. 

197  :  4.  7'usi'an.  Dante  was  born  at  Florence,  in  the  district  of  Tuscany, 
which  was  long  preeminent  in  letters  and  art.  It  is  famous  to-day  for  its  art 
treasures. 

197:  n.  Beatrice,  the  heroine  of  Dante's  Divine  Comedy.  She  represents 
his  lofty  conception  of  womanhood. 

197  :  12.  Anchorite.  Dante  was  not  a  monk,  but  his  thin,  stern,  ascetic 
face  gave  him  the  appearance  of  a  half-famished  religious  recluse  who  cared 
only  for  things  of  the  spirit. 

197  :  13.  GJribclline's.  The  Ghibellines  were,  in  Dante's  day,  a  political 
party  in  Italy  who  took  the  side  of  the  emperors  in  their  struggles  against  the 
popes.  Their  opponents  were  the  Guelfs,  who  sided  with  the  popes  in  their 
attempts  to  increase  the  temporal  power  of  the  Church.  Dante  was  a  Ghibel- 
line.  This  was  also  the  popular  party. 

197  :  17.    Cumins  cavern.     Cumixj  was  an  early  fortified  town  in  Campania, 
Italy.     The  remains  of  subterranean  passages  and  caverns  may  be  seen  there 
to-day. 

198  :  8.    Corvcfs  husJied  monastic  shade.     Dante  may  have  sought  refuge 
and  rest  at  Corvo  for  a  time  during  his  exile.     Sighs  for  peace  and  rest  occur 
frequently  in  his  poems. 

198  :  9.  the  ttencdictine.  In  the  Middle  Ages,  one  of  the  most  prominent 
of  the  monkish  orders  was  the  Benedictine,  founded  by  St.  Benedict. 

198  :  20.  Dread  scourge  of  many  a  guilty  line.  In  his  vision  Dante  places 
in  hell  and  purgatory  not  only  those  who  deserved  ill  of  God  in  their  life 
time,  but  also  many  of  his  own  political  enemies. 

198  :  25.  He  used  Rome's  harlot  for  his  mirth.  lie  laughed  to  scorn  the 
debaucheries  of  Rome. 

198:32.  Latinni's  other  Virgil.  Latium  stands  here  for  Rome  or  Italy. 
The  line  means  that  Dante  occupied  the  literary  position  in  the  Italy  of  his 
day  that  Virgil  occupied  in  the  old  days  of  Rome. 

THEODORE   O'HARA 

199.  The  Bivouac  of  the  Dead  was  written  to  commemorate  the  Ken- 
tuckians  who  fell  at  the  battle  of  Buena  Vista  in  the  Mexican  War.  It 
falls  short  of  the  best  poetry  by  reason  of  its  somewhat  hackneyed  phrase- 


NOTES  353 

ology,  as  well  as  by  its  want  of  restraint ;  but  it  has  sincere  feeling  and  fully 
deserves  its  popularity. 

The  "  chieftain,"  mentioned  in  stanza  6,  is  General  Zachary  Taylor,  a  native 
of  Kentucky,  who  commanded  the  American  forces  at  Buena  Vista. 

201  :  14.  Angostura's  plain,  a  pass  near  Buena  Vista  occupied  by  a  part 
of  the  American  army. 

THOMAS   BUCHANAN   READ 

203.  Drifting.  Read's  lightness  of  touch  and  graceful,  if  not  powerful, 
play  of  the  imagination  are  perhaps  nowhere  seen  to  such  advantage  as  in 
this  poem. 

JOHN    RANDOLPH   THOMPSON 

206.  Music  in  Camp.  Thompson,  who  had  written  much  partisan  war 
verse,  shows  here  the  true  fraternal  feeling  that  all  generous  men,  no  matter 
on  which  side  they  fought,  have  come  to  feel  more  and  more  strongly. 

FRANCIS   ORRERY  TICKNOR 

209.  Little  Giffen.     This  simple  and  stirring  ballad  of  a  young  private  in 
the  Confederate  army  is  taken  from  real  life,  and  it  presents  a  vivid  picture 
of  a  tragedy  not  uncommon  in  the  stormy  days  of  the  Civil  War. 

209  :  26.  Johnston.  General  Joseph  E.  Johnston,  the  well-known  Confeder 
ate  leader. 

210:  2.  Knights  of  the  Golden  Ring,  the  Knights  of  the  Round  Table,  who 
gathered  about  King  Arthur,  a  heroic  figure  in  song  and  story  in  early  British 
times.  Many  of  the  stories  about  King  Arthur  and  his  knights  have  been 
retold  by  Tennyson  in  his  Idylls  of  the  King. 

GEORGE   HENRY   BOKER 

210.  A  Ballad  of  Sir  John  Franklin.     Sir  John  Franklin  was  a  well- 
known  arctic  explorer.     He  made  two  expeditions  in  search  of  the  north  pole, 
and  lost  his  life  on  the  second  expedition  in  1847.     ^ne  ^acts  a°out  his  last 
struggles  came  to  light  ten  years  afterward.     This  poem  of  Boker's  is  a  suc 
cessful  imitation  of  the  old  English  ballad  style.     It  is  vivid  and  spirited,  and 
well  sets  forth  the  courageous  Anglo-Saxon's  desire  to  push  further  the  bounds 
of  knowledge. 

215.    Dirge  for  a  Soldier.     This  impressive  dirge  was  written  in  memory  of 
General  Philip  Kearny,  a  dashing  cavalry  leader  on  the  Federal  side,  who 
was  killed  at  Chantilly,  Virginia,  in  1862. 
LONG'S  AM.  POEMS  —  23 


354  NOTES 

BAYARD  TAYLOR 

216.  Bedouin  Song.  The  Bedouins  are  children  of  the  desert.  They  are 
of  Arabian  stock,  and  their  wanderings  cover  the  wild  desert  lands  east  of 
Palestine.  They  roam  about  in  bands,  carrying  with  them  their  wives  and 
children  and  substance.  They  own  no  man  as  lord,  and  pay  allegiance  to  no 
government.  They  are  wanderers  by  instinct  and  by  long  habit. 

Bayard  Taylor  has  put  into  this  poem  the  atmosphere  of  the  desert,  —  some 
thing  of  its  heat,  freedom,  and  passion,  —  and  he  has  done  it  with  a  lyric 
grace  that  is  wholly  effective. 

218.  America   (from   the   National  Ode,  July  4,   1876).     The   simplicity, 
heartiness,  and  dignity  of  this  ode,  its  generous  spirit  of  democracy,  and  its 
confidence  and  hopefulness  for  the  future,  mark  it  apart  as  a  poem  of  unusual 
strength  and  poise. 

RICHARD    HENRY   STODDARD 

219.  Abraham  Lincoln.     President  Lincoln«was  shot  and  killed  in  Ford's 
Theater,  Washington,  on  April    14,    1865,  by  John  \Vilkes  Booth,  an  actor. 
This  ode  of  Stoddard's  is  one  of  the  best  of  the  many  laments  written  since 
Lincoln's    death.     It   has  sustained   dignity,   aptness   of  phrase,   and  a   true 
appreciation  of  Lincoln's  character.     It  is  lacking,  perhaps,  in  intensity  of 
feeling. 

220  :  1 8.  Lares.  These  were  the  gods  of  Roman  mythology  charged  with 
the  care  of  the  home  and  of  the  state. 

FRANCIS    MILES   FINCH 

225.  The  Blue  and  the  Gray.  The  healing  of  the  scars  made  by  the  Civil 
War  has  been  greatly  helped  along  by  such  verse  as  this  kindly  and  melodi 
ous  poem. 

JOHN  TOWNSEXD   TROWBRIDGE 

227.  The  Vagabonds.  As  a  picture  of  real  life,  on  one  particular  side,  this 
poem  is  vivid  and  dramatic,  and  full  of  humane  feeling. 

MARGARET  JUNKIN   PRESTON 

231.  A  Grave  in  Hollywood  Cemetery,  Richmond  (J.R.T.).  This  poem 
was  written  in  memory  of  John  Randolph  Thompson,  poet  and  journalist,  who 
was  born  in  Richmond,  Virginia,  and  lived  there  many  years.  His  last  years, 
however,  were  spent  in  New  York  city  as  literary  editor  of  the  Evening  Post, 
where  he  died.  His  body  was  brought  to  Richmond  for  burial  in  Hollywood 
Cemetery,  where  James  Madison,  Jefferson  Davis,  J.  E.  B.  Stuart,  and  A.  P. 
Hill  are  also  buried. 


NOTES  355 

231 :  ii.  Dante.  Dante,  the  greatest  of  Italian  poets,  was  exiled,  for  politi 
cal  reasons,  from  his  native  city,  Florence.  lie  died  at  Ravenna,  but  his 
body  was  brought  back  to  Florence  for  burial.  Thompson,  however,  was  not 
an  exile  from  Richmond,  except  by  a  stretch  of  the  imagination.  He  went 
to  New  York  because  it  offered  a  better  iield  for  the  employment  of  his  liter 
ary  abilities. 

232  :  10.     The  mystic  cable.     The  ocean  telegraph  cable. 

232:  18.  Provencal-like.  Provence  is  a  district  in  southern  France,  noted 
for  music  and  poetry.  In  early  days  many  of  its  poets  w~ere  strolling  min 
strels.  The  reference  here  is  to  Thompson's  literary  career  in  Richmond, 
London,  and  New  York. 

232 :  24.  Stuart.  General  J.  E.  B.  Stuart,  a  brilliant  Confederate  cavalry 
leader,  who  was  killed  while  defending  Richmond  against  General  Sheridan, 
in  1864.  He  was  the  theme  of  one  of  Thompson's  stirring  ballads. 

STEPHEN   COLLINS   FOSTER 

233.  My  Old  Kentucky  Home.     "  Idealized  negro  melody  "  is  a  term  that 
aptly  fits  such  charming  verse  as  this.     It  shows  the  old-time   negro  at  his 
best,  and  it  takes  as  a  background  the  civilization  of  the  old  South  when  it 
was  mellowest.     Change  and  time  have  invested  that  age  with  delicate  senti 
ment  and  pensive  grace. 

WILLIAM   HAINES   LYTLE 

234.  Antony  to  Cleopatra.     After  the  assassination  of  Julius  Caesar,  B.C.  44, 
Mark  Antony,  a  friend  of  Caesar's,  and  Octavius  Cesar,  Cesar's  adopted  son, 
joined  forces  and  utterly  defeated   the  party  of  the   assassins,  chief  among 
whom  were  Brutus  and  Cassius.     Later  on  Antony  became  bewitched  with 
the  charms  of  Cleopatra,  queen  of  Egypt,  a  woman  of  wondrous  charm,  who 
was  the  last  of  the  ancient  dynasty  of  the  Ptolemies.     Antony  joined  forces 
with  Cleopatra  and  made  war  on  Octavius  Caesar,  who  had  become  the  head 
of  the  Roman  government.     A  decisive  battle  at  sea  resulted  in  the  defeat  of 
Antony  and  Cleopatra,  who  sailed  away  together  to  Egypt,  where  both  com 
mitted  suicide.     Egypt  was  then  made  a  Roman  province. 

234  :  i.    Egypt  stands  here  for  Cleopatra. 

234  :  3.  Plutonian.  Pluto  was,  in  ancient  mythology,  the  god  of  the  lower 
regions. 

224  :  12.  Actiuni's  fatal  shore.  Actium  was  a  promontory  in  Greece,  near 
which  was  fought  the  battle  in  which  Antony  and  Cleopatra  were  defeated  by 
Octavius  Csesar. 

234  :  1 6.    Triumvir.     After  the  death  of  Julius  Csesar,   Octavius   Csesar, 


356  NOTES 

Antony,  and  Lepidus  banded  themselves  together  in  a  triumvirate.  For  a 
time  they  were  the  rulers  of  Rome. 

235  :  3-  Octavia,  the  divorced  wife  of  Antony.  She  was  a  sister  of 
Octavius  Caesar. 

235  :  II.  Sivgian  horrors.  In  ancient  mythology,  the  Styx  was  a  river  in 
Hades. 

235  :  23.    Isis  and  Osiris,  chief  divinities  in  Egyptian  mythology. 

235  :  24.    Cleopatra  —  Koine — farewell.     When  Antony  saw  that  he  was 
likely  to  be  killed  by  the  Roman  soldiers  who  were  invading  Egypt,  he  slew 
himself  with  his  own  sword.     Cleopatra  also  killed  herself  when  she  heard 
of  his  death. 

HENRY   TIMROD 

236.  Charleston.     Timrod  wrote  this  poem  in  1863,  when  the  cause  of  the 
Confederacy  was  waning.     A  few  months  later  the  city  fell  into  the  hands  of 
the  Federal  forces.     Charleston  had  enjoyed  a  breathing  spell  since  the  early 
days  of  the  war,  when  Fort  Sumter,  then  commanded  by  United  States  troops, 
was    fired    upon    and    captured.     At  the   time   this  poem  was  written,  Fort 
Sumter  was  in  command  of  the  Confederates,  and,  with  Fort  Moultrie,  formed 
the  main  defenses  of  Charleston  Harbor,  an  unusually  beautiful  sheet  of  water. 

236  :  3.    In  tJie  broad  sunlight  of  heroic  deeds.     Early  in  the  Revolutionary 
War,  in  1776,  the  British  attacked  the  fortifications  on  Sullivan's  Island,  near 
the  entrance  of  the  harbor,  but  were  repulsed  by  Colonel  Moultrie.     These 
fortifications  were  afterward  called  Fort  Moultrie,  the  name  which  they  bore 
in  the  Civil  War.     In  1780  the  city  was  captured  by  the  British.     There  are 
still  in  Charleston  houses  which  bear  the   marks  of  shells  thrown  into  the 
city  by  the  British  during  the  Revolutionary  War,  and  by  the  Federals  in  the 
Civil  War. 

236  :  9.  Calpc  is  another  name  for  Gibraltar.  The  fortifications  of  Charles 
ton  are  situated,  not  on  hills,  but  on  sand  dunes. 

237.  At  Magnolia  Cemetery.    These  lines  were  warmly  praised  by  Whittier 
for  their  beauty,  simplicity,  and  sincerity. 

238  :  I.    behalf,  in  behalf  of. 

PAUL   HAMILTON   HAYNE 

238.  A  Little  While   I  fain  would  linger  Yet.      Although  lacking  in 
strength  of  feeling  and  vigor  of  imagination,  Hayne  has  great  refinement  of 
mind  and  heart,  and  his  verse  is  generally  graceful  and  pleasing. 

240.  The  Mocking  Bird  (at  night).  The  light,  graceful  play  of  Hayne's 
imagination  appears  to  advantage  in  these  lines.  And  no  one  has  caught  and 
put  into  verse  so  well  the  charm  of  the  mocking  bird's  song  at  night. 


NOTES  357 

EDMUND   CLARENCE   STEDMAN 

241.  Kearny  at  Seven  Pines.  Few  war  lyrics  surpass  this  in  its  spirited 
appeal  to  men  of  chivalrous  instincts.  General  Philip  Kearny  was  an  intrepid 
Federal  cavalry  leader  who  was  greatly  admired  by  his  soldiers,  and  his  death 
at  Chantilly,  Virginia,  in  1862,  was  greatly  deplored.  General  R.  E.  Lee, 
who  knew  him  in  old  army  days,  expressed  great  personal  regret. 

The  battle  referred  to  in  this  poem,  Seven  Pines,  was  fought  near  Rich 
mond -during  General  McClellan's  campaign  in  1862. 

General  Kearny  came  from  New  Jersey,  and  an  oil  portrait  of  him  hangs 
in  the  capitol  at  Trenton. 

THOMAS   BAILEY   ALDRICH 

'242.  Unguarded  Gates.  In  this  poem  Mr.  Aldrich  has  taken  a  vital  but 
everyday  theme  and  handled  it  with  deep  patriotic  feeling  and  unusual 
imaginative  power.  There  are  lines  in  it  that  make  the  blood  beat  faster,  — 

Have  a  care 

Lest  from  thy  brow  the  clustered  stars  be  torn 
And  trampled  in  the  dust. 

244.  Palabras  Carinosas.  No  American  poet  has  surpassed  Mr.  Aldrich 
as  a  writer  of  vers  de  societe.  His  verses  are  well-nigh  perfect  in  form,  highly 
finished,  and  he  has  the  lightness  of  touch  and  the  quick,  graceful  turn  of  the 
imagination  so  essential  to  a  master  of  the  beautiful  art  of  writing  occasional 
verse,  —  the  short,  sprightly  verse  of  wit,  satire,  grace,  or  sentiment.  Men 
who  write  this  sort  of  verse  are  those  who  see  things  beneath  the  froth  of 
society. 

The  title  of  this  poem  is  Spanish,  and  means  "Affectionate  Words." 

244.  Batuschka.  The  title  of  this  poem  is  a  Russian  word  meaning  "  Little 
Father,"  a  term  of  endearing  loyalty  often  applied  in  folk-songs  to  the  Czar, 
or  Tsar. 

Mr.  Aldrich  has,  with  his  usual  imaginative  vigor,  put  into  these  lines  the 
tragedy  that  lies  underneath  the  surface  of  Russian  life. 


JOHN   HAY 

246.  Jim  Bludso  of  the  Prairie  Belle  is  taken  from  Hay's  first  volume 
of  verse,  Pike  County  Ballads,  the  scenes  of  which  are  laid  in  Arkansas. 
It  is  the  story  of  an  uncouth  engineer  who  saw  his  plain  duty  before  him 
and  sacrificed  his  life  to  it.  The  rude  but  often  heroic  qualities  of  the  early 
Mississippi  boatmen  have  also  been  admirably  set  forth  in  prose  by  Mark 


358  NOTES 

Twain.     These  early  poems  of  Hay's  and  the  stories  of  Mark  Twain  make 
very  plain  the  virile  stuff  that  went  into  the  making  of  the  Great  West. 

JAMES   RYDER   RANDALL 

248.  My  Maryland.  Every  lover  of  peace  and  good  feeling  will  deplore 
the  strong  sectional  tone  of  the  poem,  but  every  lover  of  poetry  must  concede 
its  artistic  merit  as  a  spirited  martial  lyric.  The  lyrical  feeling  is  so  real  and 
so  glowing  that  it  kindles  from  stanza  to  stanza  and  is  sustained  until  the  end. 
It  was  struck  off  at  white  heat,  and  gives  voice  to  the  excited  state  of  feeling 
inevitable  at  the  beginning  of  a  great  conflict. 

The  song  was  written  in  1861,  when  the  Massachusetts  troops,  on  their 
way  South,  were  fired  upon  in  the  streets  of  Baltimore.  Mr.  Randall,  who 
was  then  living  in  Xew  Orleans,  read  the  report  in  a  newspaper,  and  imme 
diately  sat  down  and  wrote  these  lines. 

248  :  21.  Carroll's  sacred  trust.  The  reference  is. to  Charles  Carroll,  of 
Carrollton,  one  of  the  signers  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence  from  Mary 
land. 

248  :  22.    Howard' 's  warlike  thrust.     This  refers  to  General   John   Eager 
Howard,  who  was  a  Maryland  soldier  of  distinction  in  the   Revolution. 

249  :.  5,  6,  7.     Ringgold,  Watson,  Lowe,  and  May  were  Marylanders  who 
fought  in  the  Mexican  War. 

249  :  14.    Sic  semper  !    This  is  a  shortened  form  of  Sic  semper  tyrannis,  the 
motto  on  the  coat  of  arms  of  Virginia.     It  may  be  freely  translated  —  Down 
with  tyrants  ! 

250  :  4.    Vandal.     The  Vandals,  to  whom  the  Federal  soldiers  are  here  com 
pared,  were  a  barbaric   northern  tribe  who  fell  upon  Rome  in  the  days  of  her 
decay  and    despoiled    her.     The    comparison  is,  of   course,  far-fetched    and 
absurd.     The  extravagant  language  may  lie  set  down  to  the  heated  feeling 
of  the  time.     The  same  may  be  said  of  line  17. 

ABRAM   JOSEPH    RYAN 

251.  The  Conquered  Banner.     Perhaps  no  poem  of  the  war  expresses  so 
musically  and  so  exactly  the  feeling  at  the  South  at  the  close  of  the  Civil  War 
as  do  these  lines  on  the  Confederate  flag.     With  sincerity  and  with  real  emo 
tion  the  poem  gives  voice  to  tender  and  hopeless  regret. 

ANONYMOUS 

252.  The  Confederate  Flag.     Although  lacking  both  the  passionate  and 
the  musical  qualities  of  Father  Ryan's  poem,  this  anonymous  lament  has  more 
dignity  and  restraint;    but  the  feeling  shown  is  none  the  less  sincere.     Both 


NOTES  359 

poems,  it  is  to  be  noted,  accept  the  outcome  of  the  war  calmly  and  regard  it 
as  final  —  accept  it  without  bitterness,  but  with  pride  for  gallant  deeds  and 
sorrow  for  the  dead. 

BRET   HARTE 

254.  John  Burns  of  Gettysburg.  Bret  Harte  was  a  master  of  the  art  of 
telling  a  story,  whether  in  prose  or  verse,  in  a  vivid  and  stirring  way.  John 
Burns  is  a  good  example  of  his  narrative  power. 

256:  21.  Peninsula.    General  McClellan  endeavored  to  capture  Richmond, 

in  1862,  by  advancing  up  the  peninsula  between  the  James  and  York  rivers. 
This  unsuccessful  movement  is  sometimes  spoken  of  as  the  Peninsular 
Campaign. 

257  :  17.  Navarre.  Henry  of  Navarre,  the  brilliant  leader  of  the  French 
Huguenots,  was  accustomed  to  wear  a  white  plume  as  he  led  his  men  into 
battle. 

257  :  1 8.    oriflamme,  the  early  royal  ensign  of  France. 

258.  Chiquita.    Bret  Harte  is  the  chief  poet  of  the  Pacific  slope.     He  gave 
a  touch  of  romance  to  the  primitive  life  of  the  early  gold  seekers  and  other 
adventurers.      Chiquita  breathes  of  adventure,  mingled  with  the  grim  humor 
so  characteristic  of  rough  pioneer  days. 

259.  The  Aged  Stranger.     This  is  a  good  example  of  Bret  Harte's  humor. 
It  is   not  of  the  most  sublile  kind,  but   it   is  racy   of  the  soil    and    wholly 
American. 

EDWARD    ROWLAND    SILL 

261.  The  Fool's  Prayer.     The  compactness,  finish,  and  noble  ethical  tone 
of  this  poem  appeal  to  nearly  all  readers. 

262.  The  Future.     An  old  theme  is  handled  here  with  sincerity,  piety,  and 
imaginative  power. 

263.  Eve's  Daughter.     Lightness  of  touch,  a  graceful  play  of  the  imagina 
tion,  and  felicity  of  phrase  make  this  sonnet  one  of  unusual  charm. 

263  :  23.  Dana'e  was,  in  Grecian  mythology,  the  daughter  of  Eurydice  and 
beloved  of  Zeus. 

WILLIAM   GORDON   McCABE 

264.  Christmas  Night  of  '62.     The  fancies  of  a  spirited  young  Confed 
erate  officer,  dreaming  in  his  tent  at  Christmas,  are  set  forth  with  sympathy 
and  sincerity.     These  lines  no  doubt  record  the  feelings  of  the  author  him 
self  when  he  was  a  young  soldier. 


360  NOTES 

JOAQUIN   MILLER 

266.  Columbus.     Both  native  and  foreign  critics  agree  that  this  is  one  of 
the  best  poems  produced  in  America.     It  is  compact,  direct,  buoyant  in  spirit, 
and  virile  in  thought. 

266  :  I.    Azores,  a  group  of  islands  lying  west  of  Gibraltar. 
266  :  2.    Cafes  of  Hercules,  the  Straits  of  Gibraltar. 

267.  Westward  Ho  !    "  A  mighty  nation  moving  west  "  is  pictured  so  vividly 
that  the  imagination  is  easily  stirred  by  it.     Miller  is  the  laureate  of  "  bearded, 
stalwart,  westmost  men." 

SIDNEY   LANIER 

269.  Song  of  the  Chattahoochee.  The  leaping  movement  ot  this  lyric,  as 
well  as  the  haunting  melody  of  the  verse,  will  give  popularity  to  this  poem 
after  some  of  Lamer's  more  ambitious  verse  is  forgotten. 

269:  I,  2.  llabcrshani  and  Hall  are  counties  in  northeastern  Georgia,  in 
the  hill  country.  The  Chattahoochee  River  rises  in  Ilabersham  County,  flows 
down  through  Hall  in  a  southwesterly  direction,  and  on  into  the  Gulf  of 
Mexico. 

271.  Tampa  Robins.     Lanier  showed  his  lighter,  gayer  side  in  these  verses 
well  as  his  delight  in  out-of-door  things. 

271  :  1  8.  Gi-awcrcy,  a  French  word  meaning  "  many  thanks,"  but  generally 
used  ironically  in  English,  as,  "  I  thank  you  for  nothing." 

ETHEL   LYNN  BEERS 

272.  All  Quiet  along  the  Potomac.     While  these  lines  may  be  imperfect 
in  workmanship,  they  still  give  a  vivid  picture  of  a  very  grim  reality;    and 
they  make  a  human  appeal  which  is  far-reaching. 

WILLIAM   TUCKEY   MEREDITH 

273.  Farragut.     Admiral  David  G.  Farragut,  commanding  the  naval  forces 

of  the  Union,  entered  Mobile  Bay  in  1864  and  destroyed  the  land  fortifica 
tions  and  also  one  Confederate  ram.  He  was  greatly  admired  by  his  men. 
These  verses,  by  an  eyewitness,  give  a  vivid  and  stirring  picture  of  the 
admiral  during  the  fight. 

RICHARD   WATSON   GILDER 

276.  Sherman.  These  lines  are  a  very  just  appreciation  of  the  simple  and 
straightforward  character  of  General  W.  T.  Sherman,  who  takes  rank  next 
to  Grant  among  the  generals  on  the  Union  side. 


as 


NOTES  361 

276.  Great  Nature  is  an  Army  Gay.     Mr.  Gilder  has  here  discarded  the 
false  poetic  notion  that  nature  sympathizes  with  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of 
man,  and  has  adhered  to  the  truth  in  speaking  of  her  as  one  who  cares  naught 
for  the  affairs  of  human  beings,  but  who  goes  on  remorselessly  in  her  appointed 
ways.     This  view  of  nature  may  appear  cold  and  unattractive  at  first  blush, 
but  Mr.  Gilder  has  handled  it  with  impressive  imaginative  power. 

MARY   WOOLSEY   ROWLAND 

277.  In  the  Hospital.     It  is  said  that  this  poem  was  found  under  the  pillow 
of  a  wounded  soldier  near  Port  Royal,  South  Carolina,  in   1864.     After  float 
ing  around  in  the  newspapers  for  some  years,  it  was  put  into  a  collection  of 
verse  by  Mr.  F.  L.  Knowles,  7 lie   Golden    Treasury  of  American  Songs  and 
Lyrics.     "  Its  simplicity,  directness,  and  truth  of  feeling,"  says  Mr.  Knowles, 
"  are  quite  beyond  praise." 

LLOYD   MIFFLIN 

278.  Sesostris.    According  to  Grecian  legend,  Sesostris  was  a  famous  king 
and  conqueror  of  ancient  Egypt.     He  is  sometimes  identified  with  Rameses  II. 
"  He  sits  within  the  desert,  carved  in  stone,"  as  the  most  famous  and  colossal 
of  all  the  sphinxes.     He  is  for  this  reason  poetically  called  "  Sole  Lord  of 
Lords." 

278:  21.  the  sacred  beetle.  Beetles  were  carved  upon  monuments,  and  also 
used  as  ornaments  in  other  ways,  by  the  ancient  Egyptians.  They  were 
regarded  as  mystic  symbols.  At  this  late  day  it«  is  not  known  definitely  what 
they  symbolized.  To  the  modern  mind,  they  suggest  dimly  some  sort  of 
occult  power. 

279  :  4.  Presages  doom.  The  death  of  so  very  great  a  king  as  Sesostris, 
and  the  obscuring  of  his  fame  by  the  lapse  of  years,  foretells  the  doom  of  all 
kings,  no  matter  how  great. 

279  :  6.  dark  thrones.  Thrones  occupied  by  rulers  who  oppose  the  enlight 
enment  of  the  people. 

baleful  air.  The  atmosphere  of  the  neighborhood  is  called  "baleful"  be 
cause  it  suggests  the  final  ruin  of  all  earthly  kings. 

For  both  careful  workmanship  and  imaginative  vigor,  this  sonnet  has  few 
equals. 

MAURICE  THOMPSON 

279.  A  Prophecy.     This  utterance  of  an  old  Confederate  soldier  is  one  of 
the  many  signs  that  good  feeling  has  been  restored  among  men  of  the  best 
impulses,  both  North  and  South. 


362  NOTES 

279:  1 8.  Mosby  .  .  .  Mahone.  Colonel  John  S.  Mosby  was  one  of  the  most 
daring  guerrilla  chiefs  on  the  Confederate  side  in  the  Civil  War.  General 
William  Mahone  rose  to  be  one  of  Lee's  division  commanders,  and  particu 
larly  distinguished  himself  in  the  fights  around  Petersburg,  Virginia,  near  the 
close  of  the  war. 

279  :  19.    If  Wilder 's  wild  brigade  or  Morgan's  men.     General  Wilder  was 
a  Union  cavalry  leader,  whose  operations  were  often  directed  against  General 
Morgan. 

General  John  II.  Morgan  was  a  bold  Confederate  cavalry  raider,  who 
operated  mainly  in  Tennessee,  Kentucky,  and  Ohio.  He  was  killed  at 
Greenville,  Tennessee,  near  the  close  of  the  war. 

280:2.  Sheridan  .  .  .  Cleburne.  General  Philip  II.  Sheridan  was  one 
of  the  ablest  and  most  famous  Federal  cavalry  leaders.  He  was  at  the  head 
of  Grant's  cavalry  at  Appomattox. 

General  Patrick  Cleburne,  a  Confederate  general,  sometimes  called  "the 
Stonewall  of  the  West,"  was  killed  at  Franklin,  Tennessee,  in  1864. 

The  prophecy  contained  in  this  poem,  that  if  ever  the  United  States  should 
become  engaged  in  a  war  with  a  foreign  power,  the  veterans  of  both  sides 
in  the  Civil  War  would  stand  shoulder  to  shoulder,  was  amply  fulfilled  in  the 
Spanish- American  War  of  1898. 

WILL   HENRY  THOMPSON 

280.  The  High  Tide  at  Gettysburg.  A  spirit  of  the  broadest  patriotism 
breathes  through  this  poem  written  by  a  Confederate  soldier  about  the  greatest 
battle  of  the  Civil  War.  In  genuineness  of  feeling,  in  intensity,  in  vividness 
and  vigor  of  both  thought  and  expression,  it  is  probably  surpassed  by  no  poem 
dealing  with  the  Civil  War.  It  seems  to  reach  "the  high  tide"  of  the  verse 
inspired  by  that  great  struggle. 

280  :  15.    Pickett.     General  George  E.  Pickett,  who  made  the  last  and  fatal 
charge  of  the  Confederates  at  Gettysburg.     General  Lee  had  pushed  forward 
into  Pennsylvania,  in  1863,  and  met  the  Federal  forces  at  Gettysburg  under 
General  Meade,  and,  after  three  days  of  fierce  fighting,  was  forced  to  retreat 
southward.     This  battle  was  the  turning  point  of  the  Civil  War.     The  for 
tunes  of  the  Confederacy  steadily  waned,  and  culminated  in  Lee's  surrender 
to  Grant  at  Appomattox,  in  1865. 

281  :  2.    Pettigrew.     General  James  Johnston  Pettigrew,  an  accomplished 
Confederate  officer,  who  was  killed  in  a  skirmish  on  the  retreat  from  Gettys 
burg.     His  North  Carolina  brigade  took  part  in  Pickett's  charge.     He  trav 
eled  widely  in  Europe  before  the  Civil  War,  and  took  the  part  of  Italy  in  her 
war  against  Austria.     He  wrote  a  book  about  Spain  and  the  Spaniards.     His 
early  death  was  greatly  lamented. 


NOTES 

281  :  3.  A  Khamsin  wind.  A  hot,  dry  wind  common  in  the  deserts  of 
Africa. 

281  :  6.  Kemper.  General  J.  L.  Kemper,  wounded  at  Gettysburg ;  after 
ward  governor  of  Virginia. 

281  :  7.  Garnett.  General  R.  B.  Garnett,  killed  while  leading  Pickett's 
charge. 

281  :  10.  Armistead.  General  L.  A.  Armistead,  killed  in  Pickett's  charge. 
He  had  also  seen  service  in  the  Mexican  War. 

281  :  20.  Doubleday.  General  Abner  Doubleday,  a  well-known  Federal 
general,  and  also  a  veteran  of  the  Mexican  War. 

LATER   PERIOD 

THE  poetry  of  this  period  reflects  the  spirit  of  the  age.  It  displays,  for 
instance,  strong,  sincere  liking  for  all  out-of-door  things,  a  deep  interest  in 
social  problems  and  in  questions  of  human  conduct,  and  a  sober  conscious 
ness  of  national  responsibility.  On  its  lighter  side,  it  is  brightened  by  grace, 
sparkle,  nimbleness  of  wit,  and  adroitness  of  manner.  But  whether  the 
theme  be  grave  or  gay,  there  is  always  present  a  strong  sense  of  form.  The 
apt  word,  the  illuminating  phrase,  the  musical  cadence,  the  quick  and  unex 
pected  play  of  the  fancy  —  these  are  qualities  generally  present.  Though 
there  is  undoubtedly  absent  some  of  the  fire  and  deep  feeling  of  the  preceding 
age,  —  for  the  impulse  given  to  poetic  emotion  by  the  Civil  War  has  grown 
fainter  and  fainter,  —  yet  there  is  in  the  poetry  of  this  period  a  great  deal  that 
is  admirable,  both  in  spirit  and  in  workmanship. 

What  the  future  may  bring  forth,  no  man  knows.  The  present  is  an  age  of 
vast  industrial  expansion,  and  very  often  it  seems  to  care  little  for  poetry  ; 
but  this  impressive  industrial  progress  may  be  preparing  the  way  for  an  out 
burst  of  imaginative  expression  later  on. 

HENRY  VAN   DYKE 

283.  Tennyson.     Dr.  van  Dyke  is  one  of  the  most  enthusiastic  students  of 
Tennyson  in  America.     He  also  enjoyed  the  intimate  friendship  of  the  great 
poet,  and  for  this  reason,  as  well  as  for  others,  he  was  peculiarly  fitted  to  write 
this  graceful,  musical,  and  sincere  lament. 

284.  An  Angler's  Wish.     These  verses  will  meet  a  quick  response  from 
every  one  who  lives  most  of  his  days  within  four  walls,  but  who  in  his  heart 
loves  "  God's  blessed  out-of-doors." 

286.  The  Song  Sparrow.  Dr.  van  Dyke  has  a  faculty  of  making  the 
very  small  things  of  earth  contribute  to  the  good  cheer  of  the  world.  His 


364  NOTES 

whole-hearted  joyousness  in  life  shines  through  everything  he  writes,  and  is 
one  of  his  most  attractive  qualities. 

EUGENE   FIELD 

287.  Wynken,  Blynken,  and  Nod.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  nobody 
in  American  letters  has  surpassed  Eugene  Field  in  vvriiing  graceful,  tender, 
and  endearing  verses  about  children. 

289.  Little  Boy  Blue.     Field  was  a  master  of  both  tears  and  laughter, 
which  are  often  not  far  apart.     This  poem  shows  him  at  his  best  as  a  master 
of  simple  pathos.     The  thought  is  as  old  as  humanity,  but  it  never  loses  its 
interest  when  deftly  expressed. 

EDWIN   MARKHAM 

290.  The  Man  with  the  Hoe.    A  very  famous  picture,  "  The  Angelus," 
by  the  French  painter  Millet  (1814-1875)  represents  a  French  peasant  stand 
ing  in  the  field  leaning  on  his  hoe,  while  with  bowed  head  he  repeats  the 
prayer  to  the  Virgin  Mary,  called  the  Angelus.     He  stops  his  work  to  obey 
the  summons  of  the  distant  church  bell.     The  glow  of  the  setting  sun  makes 
the  scene  appear  more  than  earthly. 

The  painting  suggests  to  the  casual  observer  little  more  than  instinctive 
obedience  and  reverence  on  the  part  of  the  simple  peasant  laborer  ;  but  it 
suggested  to  Mr.  Markham  a  very  old  question,  namely,  the  inequality  of 
men.  If  man  is  created  in  the  image  of  God,  why  should  some  men  always 
be  hewers  of  wood  while  others  sit  clothed  in  purple  ?  Mr.  Markham  sets 
this  down  to  the  tyranny  of  rulers  who  oppress  the  ignorant,  and  he  vvarns 
these  rulers  that  a  day  of  judgment  will  surely  come.  .There  is  nothing 
novel  about  such  opinions,  but  in  this  poem  they  arc  expressed  so  vividly, 
and  with  such  sincere  feeling,  that  the  reader's  imagination  is  stirred  and  his 
sympathies  aroused. 

291 :  7.  Plato,  an  ancient  Grecian  philosopher,  who  reasoned  much  about 
the  immortality  of  the  soul. 

Pleiades,  a  cluster  of  seven  stars  in  the  constellation  Taurus. 

JOHN  VANCE  CHENEY 

292.  The  Man  with  the  Hoe.  A  Reply.  Mr.  Cheney  does  not  think 
that  the  inequality  of  man  is  due  entirely  to  the  oppression  of  rulers.  He 
suggests  that  there  are  certain  laws  of  nature  which  operate  in  their  appointed 
ways  ;  that  those  who  rise  do  so  by  merit,  and  that  those  who  fall  are  lacking 
in  capacity  ;  and  that,  after  all,  the  laboring  man  has  rest  and  peace  after 
his  labor  —  pleasures  often  denied  to  kings.  These  ideas  are  no  more 


NOTES  365 

novel  than  those  expressed  by  Mr.  Markham,  hut  they  are  set  forth  in  terse, 
apt,  and  vivid  phrases,  and  not  without  human  sympathy. 

Mr.  Markham's  poem  seems  somewhat  influenced  by  the  socialistic  unrest 
of  the  age.  Socialism  would  abolish  competition  in  life,  and  reconstruct 
society  on  the  basis  of  equal  ownership  of  property.  Mr.  Cheney's  poem, 
on  the  other  hand,  takes  the  conservative  position  that  nature's  laws  should 
be  left  to  work  themselves  out  without  too  much  meddling  by  man. 

Neither  poem  solves  the  problem,  of  course,  nor  is  it  ever  likely  to  be 
solved  until  the  coming  of  the  millennium. 

EDITH    MATILDA   THOMAS 

294.  Mother  England.     The  complex  feeling  of  an  American  woman  of 
many  gifts  is  effectively  set  forth  in  these  lines.     In  them  there  is  neither 
servility  nor  boastfulness  ;   but  there  is  admiration,  dignity,  and  love.     The 
emotion  expressed  is  no  less  real  because  it  is  touched  with  reserve. 

295.  The  Mother  who  died  Too.     Miss  Thomas  has  the  unusual  gift  of 
being  able  to  express  tender  emotion  without  lapsing  into  sentimentality.     She 
does  it  with  restraint,  with  phrasing  at  once  delicate  and  firm,  and  with  ab 
solute  precision. 

JAMES   WHITCOMB   RILEY 

296.  The  Old  Man  and  Jim.    These  verses,  written  in  the  Hoosier  dialect, 
have  a  homely  pathos  that  makes  an  effective  appeal  to  all  hearts. 

298.  Ike  Walton's  Prayer.  The  theme  of  this  poem  is  old,  but  the  desire 
for  contentment  is  as  old  as  the  world,  and  is  felt  by  every  one  ;  and  when 
expression  is  given  to  this  feeling  in  language  that  appeals  simply  and  directly 
to  the  imagination,  it  is  sure  to  be  widely  appreciated. 

EUGENE   FITCH    WARE 

301.  Quivera  —  Kansas.  This  poem  was  written  to  celebrate  the  three 
hundred  and  fiftieth  anniversary  of  the  first  arrival  of  Europeans  upon  the 
soil  of  Kansas,  which  is  a  part  of  a  region  once  called  Quivera  by  the  Indians. 
The  Spaniards  came  up  from  Mexico  in  search  of  cities  and  gold,  but  they 
made  no  permanent  settlement  in  what  is  now  Kansas.  It  was  left  for  the 
sturdy  Anglo-Saxon  to  turn  the  wilderness  into  rich  fields  of  corn  and  wheat, 
and  to  build  towns  and  cities  and  railroads. 

301  :  6.  the  restless  Coronado.  Francisco  Vasquez  de  Coronado,  a  Span 
ish  soldier,  probably  went  to  Mexico  in  1535  with  the  viceroy  Mendoza.  In 
1540  he  headed  an  expedition  to  the  North,  with  a  small  army  of  Spaniards 
and  Indians,  to  seize  Cibola,  a  province  in  New  Mexico,  which  was  said  to 


366  NOTES 

contain  cities  of  fabulous  wealth.  Coronado,  finding  neither  cities  nor  gold, 
was  persuaded  by  a  plausible  Indian  to  pursue  his  explorations  eastward 
into  Kansas.  Here  he  found  plains  filled  with  buffalo  instead  of  rich  cities. 
Finally  the  Indian  confessed  that  he  had  lured  him  and  his  followers  into  the 
desert  to  bring  about  their  ruin.  Thereupon  the  lying  Indian  was  promptly 
hanged.  The  Spaniards,  broken  by  privations  and  hardships,  returned  dis 
contentedly  to  Mexico. 

302  :  9.  //  with  flows  besieged  the  sky.  The  general  meaning  of  this  line 
is,  that  the  Saxon  by  sheer  pluck  and  persistence  conquered  unfavorable  cli 
matic  conditions  and  forced  the  soil  to  become  productive. 
^  Mr.  Ware's  poem  makes  use  of  the  early  Spanish  explorations  as  an  attrac 
tive  setting,  and  it  furthermore  gives  voice  throughout  to  the  unconquerable 
hopefulness  and  energetic  Americanism  of  the  sturdy  West. 

CHARLES   HENRY   LUDERS 

303.  The    Four    Winds.     Few  poems   are    more   attractive   than   this  in 
melody,  aptness  of  phrase,  and  outdoor  atmosphere. 

HENRY  CUYLER   BUNNER 

304.  The  Way  to  Arcady.     For  light,  tripping  movement,  airy  grace  of 
thought,  and  gentle  pathos  that  is  pensive  but  not  oppressive,  these  verses  are 
widely  admired. 

307.  The  Chaperon.  The  graceful  play  of  Banner's  imagination  is  nowhere 
seen  to  better  advantage  than  in  these  deftly  turned  lines. 

308  :  8.  Midas  was  a  king  in  ancient  mythology  who  had  the  power  of 
turning  everything  he  touched  into  gold.  Bunner  applies  the  term  here  to  a 
young  man  whose  mind  is  centered  on  wealth. 

FRANK   DEMPSTER   SHERMAN 

309.  On  a  Greek  Vase.  Mr.  Sherman  is  excelled  by  few  poets  of  the  day 
for  daintiness  of  fancy,  lightness  of  touch,  and  perfection  of  form. 

309.  On  Some  Buttercups.     In  these  lines  he  shows  the  same  graceful  play 
of  the  imagination  and  refinement  of  feeling  that  mark  most  of  his  verses.    To 
turn  off  an  attractive  poem  on  a  light  subject  is  not  so  easy  as  it  seems. 

LOUISE   IMOGEN   GUINEY 

310.  The    Wild    Ride.     These   verses  suggest  very  vividly  the  struggles 
which  have  to  be  endured  by  every  man  who  sets  before  him  a  high  standard 
of  conduct. 


NOTES  367 

RICHARD    IIOVEY 

311-  The  Call  of  the  Bugles.  The  pulses  are  stirred  by  these  lines  as  they 
are  by  the  call  of  real  bugles.  Few  martial  poems  are  charged  with  such 
strong  but  restrained  patriotic  ardor,  and  with  such  real  imaginative  power. 

314.  Unmanifest  Destiny.     A  large  and  abiding  hopefulness  for  the  future 
of  the  country  beats  through  these  lines.     It  is  the  spirit  which  characterizes 
the  best  American  patriotic  feeling.     It  is  devoid  of  boastfulness,  and  its  tone 
is  steady,  confident,  and  aspiring. 

315.  Love  in  the  Winds.     One  of  the  most  characteristic  notes  of  later 
American  poetry,  as  well  as  of  American  life,  is  its  frank  and  sincere  liking 
for  out-of-door  things. 

WILLIAM   VAUGHN   MOODY 

316.  Robert  Gould  Shaw.     Colonel  Shaw  commanded  the  first  negro  regi 
ment  enlisted  in  the  Civil  War,  the  Fifty-fourth  Massachusetts.     lie  was  killed 
while  storming  Fort  Wagner,  in  Charleston  Harbor,  in  1863.     An  impressive 
bronze  statue  of  Shaw,  by  St.  Gaudens,  stands  on  the  summit  of  Beacon  Hill, 
Boston. 

318.  We  are  our  Fathers'  Sons.    These  lines  were  written  in  1900,  when 
the  United  States  still  held  Cuba.    They  contain  an  impassioned  call  to  public 
leaders  to  "  let  the  island  men  go  free,"  and  a  warning  not  to  retain  Cuba  for 
the  sake  of  material  gain. 

319.  On  a  Soldier  fallen  in  the  Philippines.    At  the  close  of  the  Spanish- 
American  War,  in   1898,  the  United  States  found  herself  confronted  by  new 
problems.     New  territorial  possessions  had  come  into  her  hands,  and  it  was 
a  question  whether  she  should  hold  these  possessions  as  colonies,  or  should 
grant  them  independence.     There  were,  and  are,  many  who  take  the  position 
that  she  is  doing  violence  to  her  traditions  in  withholding  absolute  liberty 
from  these  dependent  peoples.     The  poem  gives  expression  to  this  phase  of 
American  public  opinion. 

CAROLINE   DUER 

320.  An  International  Episode.     In  order   to   prevent   violence  on  the 
island  of  Samoa,  English,  German,  and  American  battleships  gathered  in  the 
harbor  of  Apia,  in  1889,  when  a  tropical  hurricane  fell  suddenly  upon  the  har 
bor  and  destroyed  or  disabled  every  ship.     Two  American  vessels,  the  Tren 
ton  and  the    Vandalia,  were  sunk,  and  fifty-two  lives  altogether  were  lost. 
The   tornado   lasted   two   days.     Vessels  smashed  into  one   another  or  were 
dashed  on  the  reefs.     The  English  man-of-war  Calliope  had  stronger  engines 
than  the  rest,  and  put  out  to  sea  for  self-preservation;   and,  as  she  sailed  away, 


368  NOTES 

a  tremendous  cheer  went  up  from  the  American  seamen,  who,  though  dis 
abled  themselves,  were  glad  to  see  their  English  cousins  escape  to  a  place 
of  greater  safety. 

GUY   WETMORE   CARRYL 

322.  When  the  Great  Gray  Ships  come  In.  These  lines  express  fitly  and 
nobly  the  feeling  of  most  thoughtful  Americans,  perhaps,  when  they  saw 
gathered  in  New  York  Harbor  the  imposing  men-of-war  fresh  from  Manila 
and  Santiago. 

323  :   21.    round  heads,  turn  around. 

JOSEPH   B.    GILDER 

324.  The  Parting  of  the  Ways.  The  United  States,  the  "  Giant  of  the 
West,"  is  here  admonished  not  to  become  drunk  with  a  sense  of  power,  but 
to  use  her  strength  unselfishly  to  serve  the  weak.  To  use  skill  and  power 
in  such  a  chivalrous  way  is  to  reach  unto  the  full  stature  of  true  nobility. 


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